MyCoR 1: Saved By Grace
by Amita4ever
Summary: 30 years before TCoR a man sought his future and certain events were set in motion... during the destruction of Furya an infant was left in a trashcan to die, his own umbilical 'artfully' wrapped around his neck. How'd he survive? My take.
1. Prologue & Chapter 1: Against the Odds

**Turn About**

**FORMALITIES**

**COPYRIGHTS****:**The Lord Marshal, the Necromongers, Aereon the Elemental, Furya, the name Richard Riddick and other elements taken from the context of the movies Pitch Black, The Chronicles of Riddick, their novelizations and their official websites are copyrighted to Universal Studios. The manner of their use, and everything else in Saved By Grace, is the creative creation of FanFic Member Amita4ever.

**RATED: **T(if at any time you feel this rating is inappropriate, please SEND MESSAGE through my profile)  
**FOR  
****Language:** mild  
**Sex/Nudity:** none  
**Violence:** strong  
**Other:**war imagery

**SUMMARY**: 30 years before TCoR a man sought his future and certain events were set in motion... during the destruction of Furya an infant was left in a trashcan to die, his own umbilical 'artfully' wrapped around his neck. How'd he survive? My take.

**ON RIDDICK'S TIMELINE****:** This story takes place about30 years before The Chronicles of Riddick movie. This is the first tale in a story arc I have created for Riddick that tries to fill in some of the space left by the movies while staying within the canon (universe and timeline) laid out by Universal Studios. Most stories in this arc are stand-alone with only minor references to other stories.  
_(On the subject of timelines, other Riddick writers looking to write within (or in the vicinity of) the official canon are invited to check out __The History of Riddick: A Writer's Tool__, a rough timeline collected from official sources and posted here on FanFic.)  
_

**WRITER'S NOTE****:** The novelization of TCoR indicates the 'seer' who started all this may not have been entirely willing. This is the premise used for this story.

**REVIEWS ALWAYS APPRECIATED **

(Good reviews are loved, critical reviews are appreciated & details are treasured)

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**PROLOGUE**

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A disquieting revision had been required; rumors and movements and sudden variants had shifted values drastically. The calculations indicated a change in the leadership of the Necromongers, and it was a change confirmed when, against all odds, he had come; when in opposition to all equations a single Necromonger ship had crushed Elemental soil; and when contrary to all computations he had sent a summons. While the rest of the Elemental Council disassembled, and recalculated, and modified equations, Aereon acted. She was curious. No Elemental had ever met a Necromonger Lord Marshal before, not and survived to speak of it. Certainly none had ever been invited to be one's guest.

Guest.

Such an ambiguous word. To one it might mean accepting a host's hospitality while having the autonomy to come and go as one pleased. To another it meant merely the courtesy of letting one keep one's mind intact. Aereon had calculated the risks. She had felt the odds were in her favor. She was, after all, an Air Elemental. It was difficult to hold one such as her against her will.

But none had ever met a Necromonger Lord Marshal before. The title Holy Half Dead had meaning, and he had abilities no Elemental equation could have reckoned.

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**«MyCoR 1»**

**» SAVED BY GRACE «**

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By Amita4ever

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**Chapter 1**

**Against All Odds**

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"You will tell me what I want to know!" the young warrior said with forced patience.

"I can not," Aereon said with equal patience, hers less forced as she stood without moving, without flickering. The air around her was quiet. "What you ask, we do not do." Her patience found its source in wisdom, in knowledge, in the simple dullness of exhaustion. The chains encircling her wrists were silent in her stillness. They anchored her in solidity, forbidding her the freedom to flow upon the currents, to slip between the molecules of air in natural effortless movement. The mere sound of them was as maddening as his questions, for like them, they sought to force of her that which was unnatural.

"Can not or will not?" the young warrior closed in. "I grow tired of your stubbornness. You think me ignorant, but I know of your kind, Elemental. You know things. You will tell me or..." his hand reached out, a human hand shadowed of a double image, grey, liquid, leading slightly. The human hand stopped at her breast as the double image continued to flow forward. She gasped as a shaft of ice that had no substance pierced her chest; a shaft so chill it froze her breath, her heart, her blood. It invaded her presence and withdrew pulling her with it. Not her - flesh, not her - blood, but _**HER**_... her being, her very essence! She screamed soundlessly as bonds never meant to be divided while living were stretched – as every fragment of her existence felt torn by an exquisite, overwhelming agony that engulfed her heart, mind... her entirety. Her vision blurred as a pale wraith of herself began to visibly separate from her body... and then he let go. Her essence snapped back and the chains chimed brightly as she fell back against the wall, stunned and shocked.

The young man stepped up casually and leaned in close, as if confiding a secret. "I _can_ kill you," he said softly with careless confidence.

"Then... then you will never learn... what I _can_ tell you," Aereon responded breathlessly, trying to gather wits that had scattered like a wind. Her definition of reality was fracturing. Madness, true madness, hovered at the edge of her mind summoned by a terrible pain that was as incomprehensible as it was inconceivable. Though the pain was gone, the memory of it filled every fiber and thought of her being as she tried to grasp the concept of a physical being that could touch the very essence of a being, that could drag that essence from its physical form. There was no equation to explain, no computation that would circumscribe this juxtaposition of the physical and the ethereal that did not seem to border upon deity, but this man was no god!

"My fair Aereon," the Lord Marshal lifted her chin with a human hand and she flinched at his touch. "If you can not tell me my future, I have no further use for you."

"Elementals... do not... tell the future," she repeated yet again pressing herself against the wall, the familiar argument giving a familiar anchor to her thoughts, "we calculate..."

"Foretell, calculate, predict, I don't care what you call it," the hand beneath her chin fell away only to come back across her cheek with force. "Just tell me what I want to know, or I will kill you and summon one who will." This pain was physical. This pain was real. It held her mind upon the plane of sanity.

"No other will come," Aereon returned, fear giving her words the mask of defiance. "I alone was willing."

"Then I'll kill the lot of you," he snarled quietly as he turned away and strode for the door, "the whole damn planet of you," he added, and it was no idle threat.

"NO!" Aereon cried, and knew she had lost with the utterance.

The Lord Marshal paused, profiled against the light streaming in through the open doorway. A door that stood open in pure mockery of her captivity. Were she not chained she could have been out that door before he could draw breath. "Or perhaps not," he said lowly, letting his voice echo to her off the smooth airtight walls of her cell. Slowly he turned back to her, his victory already gleaming in his eyes. "_Calculate_ for me, Aereon," he smiled coldly. "Calculate for me and perhaps the Elemental home world will be the last to fall."

_The last to fall! Time to seek an answer. _"And I will be allowed to return home?" she asked desperately.

"I will see to it myself," he promised smoothly. "After all, you are my guest." The meanings of those words, hidden, twisted or implied, were too many for her tortured brain to manipulate, but for the sake of her sanity she had to accept them as spoken, whatever the odds.

"What would you know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You know what I ask," he answered, his impatience transformed by anticipation, "What is my future? Will I be the one to take the Legion Vast across the Threshold?" She understood him better now than when he first asked in the guise of courteous hosting. It was less a question than a statement. He sought only confirmation; confirmation upon which to justify his merciless destruction of all life, and the complex equations she had shaped based on her observations favored YES, but she refused to give him that.

Her mind unsettled, the paths of logic fractured, it was a short fall from calculation to conjecture. _Make him uncertian. Slow him down._.. "The possibility exists,..." she hedged, "but the equation is unclear. It is more likely,... if your host continues its path of devastation unchecked,... that you will set into motion the wheels of your own destruction." _Vague enough._

This was not what he had wanted to hear. "How," the young warrior breathed tightly, "How would this happen?"

How? Yes, how? It was so hard to think. Her mind strained to fashion a reasoned equation though it felt whole numbers were missing. Make it simple but believable: simple yet unsolvable... An individual, one person, the proverbial planetoid in an Oort cloud... "A child will be born...a male... who will spell your downfall." Yes, born was good. Every being was born once, no help there, and male... Would you decimate the one sex used to form your army out of fear? No, so the odds would favor male with the Necromonger custom of converting new warriors from every fallen world, and it would be believed because the Necromonger's own practices provided the most likely avenue, killing and keeping. Simple. Believable. Unsolvable.

Yes, believable. All too believable. She saw the anticipation in his eyes replaced by fear. _Yes! Become fearful, become cautious, slow your advance. Is it this planet, or the next?_ Even as she paralleled the likely path of his thoughts she saw the flaw in her own. She could not answer for it. The affects of his torment had shattered the linear patterns of reason. Without time to reorder her mind, her calculations were flawed.

"Where?" he grabbed the front of her gown with both hands and shook her in artless panic, "What race will he be?" The question triggered a thread, an equation in its infancy that had been introduced to the Council before this Lord Marshal's ascension and revitalized by the recent calculations. No, she couldn't tell him that. They might be the only hope of keeping Balance intact.

"The equations are incomplete, there are many..." Suddenly twin shafts of ice pierced her chest as his liquid hands mimicked flesh. She fought. She clung to what was hers as her essence was seized and shaken... as the bonds to flesh were stretched and ripped and rended.

"What race!" he roared in a voice that had the impact of blows.

She tried to cling to what was _her_ as her mind turned inside out, as every nerve was traced by fire twice over, as her very existence was up ended. She could not hold against him, but before the bonds could be completely sundered she distantly heard a woman's voice screaming... and the rending stopped.

Her esssece snapped back a second time sending her to the floor in a harsh jangle of chain. She lay there only barely conscious, barely aware, as wisps of self tried to knit themselves back into a mental whole. The Lord Marshal turned without another word and strode from the room. The airtight door swung shut with an ominous boom, and for once she was glad for the cold dark emptiness. She needed to be alone to sort the pieces of her self, an equation jumbled beyond calculation. She wanted nothing more than to let herself fade to nil, but somehow a single thought held her together. She had to survive and return to the Council. They had to know what she had observed. They had to know what she had done. _The last to fall! Time to calculate an answer._

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Aereon glided down the ramp of the Lord Marshal's shuttle and beheld the magnificent capital city of the Elementals. The young warrior had kept his word. For three full days she had remained in her isolated cell, although she had little complaint for it. She had needed that time to "pull herself back together" in a manner too literal for comfortable contemplation. Her memories of the horrific experience were splintered, but she remembered what the Council needed to know, that she had bought them time. That knowledge had given her the strength to continue the slow ordering and organization of the equation that was Aereon until she felt, more than anything else, like something whole. But there was at least one mercurial piece missing. It weighted upon her heart like lead even as it eluded her every effort to recall it, slipping through her mental grasp like water... something she wasn't sure she wanted to remember.

When he had appeared in her doorway on the morning of the fourth day she had _wanted_ to scream, she had _wanted_ to hide, she had _wanted_ to run cowering in the corner like a gibbering idiot, but she had _done_ none of those things. She would be damned if she were going to let him know how close he had come to breaking her.

She would have been very surprised to learn that her choice had marked her. In that moment she had earned deference, if not respect from the young Lord Marshal for she was not the first to endure that manner of interrogation. She was, however, among the few – a very few – to survive with their sanity intact. Most who were questioned by the Lord Marshal himself joined the ranks of the Lensors shortly there after, their minds suited for little else.

This Aereon, this Air Elemental, however, was an exception even among the sane survivors. Three days after he had nearly ripped her soul from her body - and there was no question he could have done so for none could resist him - she stood before him poised and calm as if none of it had happened. No, that wasn't true; there was something in her eyes that had not been there before - a cold desperation, a defiant strength. He frowned slightly. Was she unique among Elementals, or were they all so strong minded? Perhaps he should forget his promise to spare the Elemental planet until last. To have such strength and abilities in the Legion Vast would all but guarantee his successful crusade to the Threshold. On the other hand, he could well afford to be magnanimous for Aereon had given him that surety already. Only one planet... one child stood in his way.

"My fair Aereon," he offered his prisoner a faint bow, "It is time you returned home. As your visit seems to have left you fatigued, I have taken it upon myself to escort you. You are, after all, my guest." His cool smile was mocking.

Drawing herself up, Aereon lifted her chin and forced herself to accept his invitation with stately dignity, her chains trailing behind her like a train of bells. It mattered not if it were to death or departure; she could do little either way.

They passed down corridors and through the main hall before taking a lift, and she realized they were indeed going to the flight deck where the Lord Marshal's shuttle waited. She also noted that throughout the Basilica was an air of anticipation that had not been there when she arrived. The change was distinct. The arrival of an Elemental had caught interest, even without the added indignity of chains, but her leave taking went all but unnoticed. Every Necromonger Aereon saw was focused and intent, nor was uncertainty among any of the moods she sensed.

After her chains were removed they departed without delay. The journey was brief. Were Aereon not so mentally strained, her own elemental powers would have carried her the distance nearly as quickly, but as it was, the Lord Marshal's "courtesy," while dreaded, was needful. The Lord Marshal, however, offered only inconsequential conversation that required little investment of thought or attention. There were no comments regarding the "prophecy," nor requests for any further calculations. He was content to watch her, and Aereon could only describe his expression as distracted, if not satisfied. Why? It unsettled her already troubled mind.

When the shuttle set down Aereon was glad to depart as quickly as she had entered. She glided down the ramp onto the grass wanting very much to hasten to the city, but pride held her movement in check. The Lord Marshal paced at her side, but it seemed he saw little of the beauty before him, his gaze focused contemplatively on the woman beside him. "At the appointed time, fair Aereon," he smiled, "we _shall_ meet again."

His sureness galled her. "_Your_ appointed time will come sooner than you desire," she answered loftily, her courage bolstered by the nearness of her home, "if you do not heed my warning and check your advance."

"Oh, heed I have, my Lady of the Breezes." Her airs seemed to amuse him, though there was covetousness in his eyes as he gazed at her. "Heeded well."

Despite the warmth of the sun, Aereon felt a chill that was not lost when the Lord Marshal turned his attention to the communications officer that appeared at the head of the ramp. The Necromonger leader glared, annoyed at the interruption, but the fervor in officer's face persuaded him to let the man speak.

"The entire armada has reported in," the officer saluted eagerly. "All ships acknowledging course laid in for Furya. We depart on your command," and with that pronouncement Aereon found herself dismissed out of hand. That which had been distracting the Lord Marshal grew to consume him as his eyes took on a manic wildness.

"At last!" he exclaimed. "So some Furyan brat thinks to stand in the way of my glory. We shall see," and he was gone up the ramp without a single glance back at the stunned Air Elemental.

Furya! Where had he heard the name Furya? The ramp lifted sealing the shuttle as the Air Elemental struggled with her fractured memories. The ship lifted off, the incredible turbulence of its backwash flickering her form to near invisibility as a dark and terrible recollection shaped itself to the gaps of her memory. The roar of the shuttle engulfed her, occluding all other sounds and sensations save those from her past. The remembered pain of the Lord Marshal's hellish touch overwhelmed her mind as she again heard a woman's distant screaming. "Furyan," she heard the woman scream "F-u-r-y-a-n!" And that voice was her own.

What would have killed any other mortal left Aereon untouched, but as the violent winds of the shuttle's departure calmed, the Air Elemental was revealed on her knees in mortal agony. The enormity of what she had done crushed her. She had doomed an entire planet. She had destroyed all hope of Balance. She had, in a single moment of torment, fated the entire universe to death... or worse. There was no mortal way to atone for what she had done. "Oh, God," she whispered, "Forgive me."

The Elementals worshiped no god; Balance was their idol. Their numbers consumed them, and symmetry ruled them. They would plot their own course, they would determine their own fate, perhaps nudge the fate of others in the name of Balance and Equilibrium, but they were not so foolish as to deny the existence of God. Ignore Him they might choose, but refute Him they could not. The numbers did not lie. So they built their beliefs around the presumption of an absent power that had left the managing to the creation, and the Elementals saw it their place to oversee. But there was no other who could know the magnitude of what she had done, perhaps even better than she herself. It was His creation she had damned. The people... the countless people she had condemned she could not address, but the One who made them she could. "Forgive me."

The mass of her sin left her breathless, and she only hoped she would die, but as she lay there in the grass she felt the dreadful weight upon her eased – not removed, but eased, as if another had stepped in to share the burden.

_"I Am He beyond calculation."_ She felt a booming voice in her mind, and yet its softness was such a birdsong might drown it out if she choose not to listen, a still small voice with the vastness of space that echoed in her hopeless emptiness. A voice, she realized, that she had heard before, but more often than not ignored. "_You seek My Will separate from Me in the coldness of numbers, but you forget I Am a Living God. My Will is beyond your reckoning." _ There was a biding anger in the tone tempered by an infinite sorrow, _"Though you gave your prophecy falsely, yet will My Will be accomplished in My time. His path will be the darker for what you have done, but a child of Furya __**will**__ be the instrument of My justice."_

Aereon was left gasping with the immensity of the power she felt in the final words, and in them she felt both despair as dark as starless space, and hope as bright as a sun. There was no reprieve for Furya. The fate of a planet still rested at her feet, the devastating consequence of her mortal foolishness, but...

"There is hope," she whispered in awe and trembling, "the prophecy is not false," and though she would tell the Council all, she knew they would more carefully calculate the odds of her insanity than the her prophecy's veracity. The reason for its truth was one no other Elemental would accept for there was no equation to embrace it; _God will make a way._

"I will see this," Aereon promised herself. "If I have to travel to every planet in the galaxy, I will see this. I will warn those I can, and I will find this child. I will see this prophecy fulfilled.

But first, Furya would fall.


	2. Chapter 2: Rides A Pale Horse

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**Chapter 2**

**Rides a Pale Horse**

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"Shirah! By the sword, what madness is this? Do you know the time?" _Something's wrong._

The woman who spoke had been shaken roughly awake by the other. A vague and distant memory of a dream troubled her, but Shirah's behavior troubled her even more. She pushed wayward strands of dark hair out of her face, flung there by the violence of the shaking. She knew without looking that her husband did not share the bed. The Parliament of Elders had been demanding his attention and his presence these past many days. He slept when and where he could, and although it was rarely with her of late - the last time she had cause to search for him, she had found him on a small couch in his office - she suspected he was at least enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet at this woeful hour... unlike her.

The woman who woke her was not a stranger, although to say she was acting strange at the moment was an understatement. Alpha Shirah had been an influence in her life since the woman was a child. As a priestess Shirah had been responsible for teaching laws and ethics. To the girls she also taught the rituals of their gender and the intricate blade dances of the culture as well as the discipline, internal and external, which had helped sharpen the woman into who she was today. In fact, the woman could think of few areas of her life that Shirah had _not_ been an influence, directly or indirectly. Shirah had always been there.

It was even rumored that the _Melek_ himself was known to shun the council of his warrior priests on occasion and seek out Shirah instead, and the woman knew it to be true. The priestess and her insights were ageless, but then stone didn't age, or at least that was how the woman thought of her, for Shirah had an inner strength and hardness that rivaled the bedrock of the planet. In all her years the woman had never seen Shirah laugh or cry. She had seen Shirah frown... rather frequently; she had seen her smile... on occasion; and, she had even seen her grin... once, when the priestess was told the child the woman carried was a son, but no more than that.

Tonight was different. _Something's very wrong._

Shirah's hair, long ago turned tarnished silver from the rich brown of her youth, was pulled back into the thick woven ropes of her order, and she wore the sword and dagger set called the Heart and Wrath of Furya, a title she shared in her position as Alpha and bearer - the first in all Furya to be worthy in over two centuries - but other than that, she wore none of her traditional garb. In fact, what she wore had every appearance of having been put on in haste. "He rides a pale horse," Shirah babbled as she flung back the covers on the bed. "Through the darkness between worlds... he has come... finally come. You must flee!"

There was a stirring in the _Kol'adam_, the deep emotions Furyans' shared - a sense of growing fear and confusion - but the woman could tell Shirah was far removed from it, as if she were afraid of influencing, or perhaps being influenced, by it.

"What _are_ you talking about!" the woman asked sharply although she _was_ moving, her ponderous body shifting heavily toward the edge of the bed. Her own body was normally lithe and honed, as befit a woman of Furya, but now the child, near a week overdue, weighed her down. There was a strange scent in the air, a sharp fragrance radiating from the priestess that was familiar and yet so foreign the woman could not place it, but it drove her to move even more quickly.

"I told them we had kept ourselves too isolated, too independent," the priestess muttered. As soon as she saw the woman was moving, she went to dig through the chest at the end of the bed. "We trusted in our remoteness. Our arrogance has killed us."

The words sent a cold chill down the woman's spine, and she strove awkwardly to get to her feet as she looked out the window with foreboding. The white comet that had been approaching dominated the sky, glorious and otherworldly. Its appearance had their astronomers baffled for its like had never been seen before in recorded history. Many saw it as an omen, but whether for good or ill was hotly debated. The OWMS, or Off World Monitoring System, had also reported an unusual amount of activity. They were adamant that the Elementals were trying, very insistently, to contact Furya directly, but by the time the Parliament of Elders had finally agreed to listen to the interfering manipulators, the comet's nearness had effectively jammed the transmission.

The woman had no fondness for the Elementals and their pretensions either, but it wasn't the first time she wondered if Furya's unrelenting policy of seclusion was wise. Shirah had been challenging it's wisdom for many years, but the Parliament was slow to consider any change - especially one so drastic as this - even at the Alpha's urging. There were a few things the Parliament permitted in from other solar systems, but they and their origins were tightly regulated, as were visitors. The average Furyan was brought up with little encouragement to think beyond his own solar system, and those that showed an insistent curiosity for that knowledge were funneled into occupations like the OWMS that would fill that need without endangering the ignorance of the general populace.

But there was a great deal of galaxy out there beyond their own solar system. Ignorance was not necessarily the best policy. There was a growing movement among the youth to change that, but there was not yet enough support in the Parliament to seriously consider it.

Attaining her feet the woman began to remove her gown with the intent of changing into clothes better suited to dealing with whatever madness Shirah feared, but the priestess saw her.

"No time! No time!" she exclaimed. "You must get to the stables now. Go cross country, cut through the merchant district. Get to the spaceport. Get away."

This brought the woman up short. "...through the merchant district? To the _space_port?"

That was not a word used lightly. The average Furyan knew it only as an _air_port. Only a select few knew _this_ airport handled more than _air_craft, and the meaning of the priestess's words suddenly became clear.

"No! I'll not have my son born off planet. He is Furyan. He will be born on Furya!" But, there was something about this that was distantly familiar...

"You don't understand," the priestess cried plaintively in a state of despair such as the woman had never seen. "In my dream..." At that word the woman went still. "...the white comet brought _death_. It brought destruction. There will be _no __more __Furya_!"

The woman went deathly still. "No more Furya... in your dream." _So familiar! Why is this so familiar?_

The priestess shoved her back so that she sat on the edge of the bed and knelt before her, buckling riding boots on the woman's feet.

"You must get to the stables. Your mount will be waiting."

"The stables? You can't mean me to ride... like this!" the woman protested waving her hand at her swollen abdomen. "There is a shuttle station on the grounds..."

"The stables are closer... safer. Go cross country... through the merchant district," Shirah repeated. "You need the long range ship in the gray hanger... the one that can break atmosphere and keep going. The captain will be waiting for you. You must make it to the commercial spaceport." The priestess met the woman's gaze, her eyes blazing with the wild fear of her foretelling. "You must escape! YOU MUST ESCAPE NOW!"

As long as the woman had known Shirah, the priestess had been a pillar of stoic strength and calm. Suddenly she knew what she smelled... she knew _why _Shirah had pulled herself from the _Kol'adam_. Fear so great she could not withstand the burden of another's all but ruled her, and it was certainly fear that was growing in the _Whole_. But the priestess... Shirah... the Heart and Wrath of Furya... the Alpha...

Never before had the woman seen in the priestess an emotion even resembling fear, but that look, that scent, one iota shy of blind panic... They hastened the woman as none of the priestess's words had.

She had no time to arm herself as she would like, but grabbed her belt and Honor Blade at the least. It was little more than a dagger, but she refused to go completely weaponless. Her belt purse also had money. Not a great deal, but the gold coins and platinum trade bars would retain value off world. She fastened it above her bulging middle and was stunned when Shirah suddenly slipped the baldric with the Heart and Wrath of Furya over her head and shoulder.

"Give these to him when he is of age to avenge us," the priestess commanded with fierce passion, and then pushed the woman out of the bed chamber. "Now _GO_!" There was no time for good byes.

The woman staggered into the hall with the force of the shove, the action conveying the priestess's desperation as vividly as her words, her actions, her fear. The woman knew there was no time to think of family, husband, or friends. There was no time. Ducking her head against the sudden agony of her heart and the tears that rushed her eyes, she wrapped her arms beneath her swollen belly and ran.


	3. Chapter 3: Hell Bent

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**A◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊†◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊Ω**

**Chapter 3**

**Hell Bent**

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The woman hurried to the stables ignoring the tears streaming from her eyes and the sobs choking her throat. Long before she arrived, the maddened shrieks from the stable told her it was her own mount, Zynda, who awaited her, and she could not have been more grateful. She thought the beast was simply angry at being roused and tacked at such an odd hour, but as she neared the dim lit stable the woman realized that the sharp stink of animal terror was emanating from every opening. As she entered, she saw that there wasn't a single animal sleeping and even Zynda's stench of angry dominance was no longer enough to keep the others in check. They were all on edge filling the walls with the sounds of violent kicking, angry squeals and anxious whines growing steadily louder. Behind every barred door was the flash of bright terrified eyes, and the air was electric with their panic. What could alarm so many fierce beasts?

The woman thought nothing could frightened her more than the dreadful foreboding she had seen in the priestess's eyes, but she was wrong. The animals' primal fear heaped upon her, and she forgot to cry as she rushed headlong into the alleyway seeking Zynda's screams. The stallion was securely cross-tethered by four taunt spun metal ropes, but even those barely controlled his rage. Sparks flew beneath his tri-cleft feet as he pawed the floor and heaved against the restraints.

At first glance the prequine appeared very much like a horse, but at second glance subtle details revealed it to be something more... and much more dangerous for the docile unmodified Earth horse would have never survived the hardships of colonizing ancient Furya. The prequine's tri-cleft feet had a vague resemblance to paws - more closely resembling the hooves of the ancient diminutive old Earth Eohippus - save these hard hooved toes were wickedly lethal weapons. Further differences were evident when Zynda threw his equine-like head to roar with throaty fury. Forward shifted cat-slitted eyes glowed with iridescent fear and fury as long - sharp - ivory canine teeth caught the light. The dark striping of his tawny hide revealed that in the far reaches of his distinguished linage, his original ancestors may have very well laid claim to tiger DNA, but there was little now that resembled feline personality in this predatory equine. The herd structure had long ago become a pack structure, and the woman who approached had established herself as his alpha-leader shortly after he'd been weaned. He was fiercely devoted to her, and in his enraged state there was no other who could have approached him now and lived.

The woman did not pause for familiar greetings and caresses. She spoke only enough to gain the animal's attention and ensure he knew her, then caught up the reins and released the clasps. As the last tether fell, Zynda shied away, dragging her a few steps until she spoke sharply, and he suddenly understood her long absence as he caught the wondrous underlying change to his mistress's scent that told him she had a foal within. The unidentifiable danger that Zynda felt approaching - that enraged him and frightened him to the point of madness - threatened her as well, and he knew with the pure hearted devotion few but animals possessed that he would die before he let it harm her, or the foal she carried. She only had to command once for him to drop to his knees, nor had she any need to command him further. No sooner had she settled in the saddle than he was leaping for the door and breaking left, knowing instinctively which way would speed them from the impending threat.

The grooms had chosen her saddle well. More of a training saddle, it was very thin without raised protrusions to catch the rider in the gut if the mount grew fractious and the shape of the skirt acted subtly to help keep the rider's legs in proper position. Anything more would have prevented her from riding. As it was, she had to lean off center and brace herself against Zynda's neck, and she felt the babe shift within her as he tried to push up against the prequine's shoulder to experience its pounding rhythm. In spite of all that was happening, the woman felt a moment of glowing pride. _Aren't you the brave one, my little warrior, you fear nothing,_ she thought to the life inside her, and she knew it was true.

She had heard other mothers talk about the children they had carried in their wombs, how some shied from touch and tried to retreat from strange sounds and voices, or how others might respond with something that might be joy if they heard familiar people speak. This one responded to everyone... everything. This babe pressed against the walls to touch the things against her belly, shoved back against the hands that would feel him through her skin, shifted to better hear every voice that spoke to her. He was always moving, fighting battles with himself or trying to better experience the world beyond her womb. Her husband had laughed just the other day when he chanced upon her in their chambers holding the headset to her symphony player against her bared swollen belly, but it was the one way she knew she could quiet the boy. The babe stilled to listen to music. Her husband had wondered why, with the child's boldness for everything beyond the thin veil of skin that separated him from the rest of the world, the baby was overdue instead of early.

Her husband... She could only hope Shirah had sought him as well. Perhaps they would find each other at the spaceport...

And, in the next moment she knew she would never see her husband again.

What had begun as a distant roar high above became a thunderous avalanche of sound and wind as a colossal tower, the nightmarish scepter of some underworld demon, descended from the heavens. The woman _sensed_ the momentary outrage, the wildly poignant regrets, and the brief overwhelming fear of those known to her who realized their doom was upon them pierce deep into her heart. In the same moment she recognized the massive structure was topped by intricate helmed faces, at once fantastic and terrible. Then she and Zynda screamed together as the iconographic sculpture pierced deep into the earth. It smashed through the palace complex with such devastating mass it was as if the ancient stone structures –- structures that had withstood the Age of Morag - were built of sand. The stronghold shattered like a crystal goblet beneath the force, and then the woman could do no more than bury both hands in the streaming mane and hold on for dear life as the prequine bolted, panicked beyond response to heel or rein.

The palace sat upon a plateau overlooking the city, many of its sides deadly steep, but the prequine –- even in its madness –- knew its path. As the ground behind them rippled and a wall of wind that could flay flesh from bone rushed upon them, Zynda shifted his course to parallel the edge and launched himself over. There was no way woman could fear more that she already did, but her fear shifted its focus briefly - would death at the bottom of the plateau... a mangled mass of Furyan and prequine flesh... be a better death than the one rushing upon them?

But, they did not fall far. The woman was jolted hard as Zynda's hooved landed upon a narrow path jutting from the wall of the cliff. His feet scrambled to find purchase on the loose rock, and then he was flying down the ledge. The woman had no control over the beast as it slid to a sudden stop. Her weight was flung sideways and only her double grip in Zynda's mane kept her from being flung into space. Her legs swung wildly as she tried to control her arc and no sooner had her feet touched the earth than the prequine flung its jaw upward so that her momentum spun her beneath his chin.

He then dropped his head over her and pressed her back under a rocky overhang so that her swollen stomach was gently caught between his chest and chin and sheltered from above by his arching neck. The earth over and beneath them shifted and shook sending debris showering down upon them, and Zynda grunted as stones fell upon his back, but he stood firm and did not let the woman fall into the hurtful shower as the winds roared over the edge of the plateau above them, and behind the wind came the whine of a multitude of small aircraft.

Zynda kept her pinned there for several minutes, which was a good thing, for she was not sure she could stand if the prequine were to remove its supporting neck or breathe without the filter of his mane. She was stunned, and numb, and her limbs trembled with shock at what she had witnessed... and with what was building.

Growing exponentially with distant immediacy the _Kol'adam _was filling with a single unified emotion. Those in the city she _sensed_ from their sheer nearness - stark fears and shocks that echoed her own - but within the city and from _all_, from the _Whole People,_ that fear was rapidly shifting... was steadily fusing into a single all-encompassing _anger_. Furyans were dying - around the entire planet, Furyans were dying - and the _Kol'adam_ was filling with a singular incomprehensible _rage_ such as the woman had only read about before. _**That**__is why we are called __Furyan__s,_ she thought in stunned awe, and then desperately pulled back from the _Kol'adam_ before the incredible force of so much raw fury - the fury of an entire race - overwhelmed her soul.

Submission was not a Furyan trait, and that was a fact known even beyond their system. Furya was remote, but not entirely unheard of, nor had all Furyan's remain isolated. There had been individuals over the years who had been inclined to leave Furya to travel the stars beyond for whatever reason but few of them had been welcome to return. Among those who had the ill fortune to contest these wayward souls, Furyan's had earned a reputation for violence and anger, but the truth of the matter was that Furyans were simply passionate. Anger was just among the most visible. It was a quirk in Furyan wiring, an anomaly in their thought patterns... Furyans felt their emotions purely, and it was not in their nature to hide them. _Discipline_ them, yes, but not hide them. Indeed, among their people there was no need. Through the _Kol'adam_, the Furyan's most sacred mystery, every Furyan was aware of his brother to some degree and of his people in general. This resulted in another racial characteristic. Furyans tended to be bluntly honest and not prone to tact - traits ill-suited to dealing with other races. But, none of this explained why they were under attack.

Who were these people? Who had such power... such malice? Why Furya? They hadn't even been offered a chance to parlay or surrender.

She clung to Zynda's neck with a desperate possessiveness. He was very possibly the only living thing left alive who knew her well. The animal trembled as badly as she did, but he did not relent in his protective stance until something that resembled quiet... dead quiet... settled upon the little piece of wilderness around them. Only then did he step back, but his stance was still one of bare checked panic as he threw his head, his eyes ringed white, trying to see as he coughed from seeking scents in the dust laden air.

For a moment the woman's numbed mind found solace in practical needs and she ripped the sleeves from her nightgown. One she used to make a cover for her face, and then pulling Zynda's head down she spread the other over his flaring nostrils and secured it under the straps of the bridle. That done she began checking her mount for injury, brushing dirt from his slick brindle hide as she sought sign of serious blood and bruising. Numerous contusions marred the animal's back, every wound a badge of faithfulness, and she was certain there were more than she could immediately see, but there were none that seemed grievous.

As she worked, distant sounds slowly pushed their way through the thick air, and as the heavy dust stirred by the icon's horrific plunge began to settle the woman found she could begin to see across the forest to the city for the tops of every one of the great century old trees had been sheared off and below that stripped bare to a level several meters beneath the edge of the plateau. The sight was mind shattering. The haze in the air shifted in the light of Tereon and Gesetria, the twin moons of Furya, and gave a surreal quality to a view that begged her to disbelieve. The air was full of small fighter craft - Furyan and the Others, which looked like bladeless sword hilts - dancing and dodging in and amongst each other resembling hordes of angry insects as the Furyan fighters tried to harass great ships that strafed the city with volleys of a pure white energy. Another sort of Other ships, these resembling monstrous sarcophagi trailing vaporous black energy like gossamer mourning shrouds, followed, gliding over the buildings dropping troops... quite literally _DROPPING_ troops... into every section of the city and everywhere these troops fell weapons fire began.

_This isn't real_, she pleaded silently, _this __**can't**__ be real_. But, she could not question that which assaulted her senses... the alien scents on the bite of the wind, the engines of the Other craft pulsing with a low discordant note that seemed to throb through her bones and tissues to set her nerves on edge. She saw flashes of color light up distant streets as energy weapons discharged, and on occasion she saw a glowing ball rise from between the avenues to hover briefly, then explode outward in an angry coruscating blue pulse that left stillness in its wake. It was all _too_ real. Her knees lost the little strength they had begun to recover as she watched the city being inundated. The invaders were starting from the areas of the most population, and methodically working toward the least... toward the merchant district... toward the commercial spaceport.

_Cut through the merchant district. Get to the spaceport. Get away!_ she heard Shirah's panicked voice ordering in her memory and knew she had wasted too much time already. She commanded Zynda to his knees again, and although the ledge was narrower than was truly safe for such a maneuver, the prequine managed. The woman flung herself on board as fast as her unwieldy body would allow and sent the animal into another maddening flight down the thin path of the plateau and through the shattered trees.

Such a ride would have been foolishness at any speed. Even with the palace defenses to prevent trespass rendered useless, the torn and twisted limbs of the mangled forest turned the idyllic woodland into a snarled web of splintered wood, but caution had no place in this race. The prequine leapt and dodged through the darkened gloom with a preternatural instinct for safe passage and his rider's precarious balance. The woman clung to his back marveling at the animal's uncanny knowledge. Zynda was a prequine of uncommon intelligence and loyalty, and there were times she almost felt a bond of minds with the beast so alike were their natures, but this night she found all her praise of the past completely inadequate.

The pale glow of the twin moons sent only scattered shafts of pallid light through the wreckage of the trees above, but Zynda's steps were unerring and his balance faultless. He chose his path with a deliberation that seemed contrary to his white eyed panic, almost as if guided, and before she knew it possible, they burst from the trees. Zynda pulled up abruptly to stand in the dark shadows of the shattered forest, his head high, blowing hard as he gaped his mouth baring fangs to the moonlight and sought the scent of an enemy. The woman could only sit in shock at the utter devastation, even more pronounced from her closer vantage.

There was no portion of the city that had not yet suffered. In the distance their military base had been reduced to a single glow of brightness on the horizon, and where populations were concentrated, the shattered ruins of buildings flickered bright as flames leaped high illuminating the rubble of once thriving precincts. She didn't need to open herself to the _Kol'adam _to know what was happening. Even at this distance the woman could hear the anguished dissonance of the people; shouts of rage and bitter wrath punctuated by screams and weapons... the sound of Furyans' fighting and losing all they held most dear, including their lives. As the horrific scene was contrasted in her mind with the thriving city she knew existed only a few short minutes ago, it seemed she had stepped from reality into Hell.

A quiet rage began to grow within her that had nothing to do with the _Kol'adam_, a burning anger that replaced the ragged grief that tore at her heart. _Who_ were they, and _why_? _Why_ was this being done? She knew she hadn't the time to seek these answers tonight. Tonight she had only time to flee... to find a way through the merchant district and get to the commercial spaceport before it too was overrun, but there would be a time...

Her hand caressed the circumference of her swollen belly. There _had_ to be time.

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**-OoO-**

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**WRITER'S THANKS, NOTES & NEWS:**

**THANKS:**

**Snake of Medusa** – Sorry I haven't updated recently, but I haven't given up and it will continue. Of course, this is part of my _own_ backstory for Riddick. Ever since I saw TCoR I really wanted to know how a baby thrown in a trash can could survive such destruction, and since I hadn't seen anything that tried to fit into canon I came up with my own answer :o). Let me know if you think it fits into the movies well enough. Thanks for the review!

**JacklynK** – Thanks! I hate that everything is taking so long, but I know you can empathize with that :o). Hope your summer slows down so you can spend some time on _your_ most excellent tales.

**KrisEleven** – Thanks. Despite being Christian, I rather dislike being preached at myself and don't want to come across that way either. As far as Aerion's prophesy goes, it wasn't so much false as it was untimely. The Elementals only knew part of the equation, so her speaking as she did changed the how, but not the what... That make any sense? But I'll have to go back and read/watch MacBeth again anyway; it's been awhile :o) Thanks for your comments – they helped me tweak.

**OneSpeedPress** – Thanks for the review and the encouragement. I suspect quotations will continue to pop up with many of my character's as God's Word it is part of their faith, but I will keep your comment in mind. I think I understand what you're saying in you last suggestion and I would like to, although I'm not sure it will show up in any of the stories I am currently writing – most of them are pretty well plotted. I will, however, _have_ to do that for some original fiction I want to write. I've just been too preoccupied with my fanfiction of late to work on it :o)


	4. Chapter 4: For the Sons of Furya

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**Chapter 4**

**For the Sons of Furya**

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Zynda raced headlong down the open hillside beneath the forest toward the lazy waterway that separated the palace lands from the city. Set aside for the use of the populace, the grassy field was a popular place for family gatherings and moonlight rendezvous' accessed by a narrow floating bridge spanning the distance from the bank to the city. Zynda made for the floating bridge with confidence, but the woman pulled him up short at the water's edge. The bridge was made for light foot traffic, not mounted riders. She would have considered swimming, but the pier works on the far side would give her mount no exit from the water. That left the stone bridge a mile and a half further downstream as their only option with nothing but open ground between it and them.

That sat ill with the woman, as did the direction. The strange fighters engaged in combat above the city had no qualms about firing at targets upon the ground, and the direction would not just take her away from her goal but into the edge of residential ground as well.

She saw no other choice.

She pulled on the reins turning Zynda's head downstream, and was surprised when the prequine protested. "Zynda," she commanded, "S_hama_!" Obey!

The animal squealed and turned back toward the floating bridge, even going so far as to set foot on the first platform before the woman yanked on the second rein. That rein leveraged a harsh elongated section of the metal bit to rap sharply against the sensitive roof of Zynda's mouth and a chain to dig into his tender chin.

"_Shama_, Zynda! It won't bear your weight!" she shouted as the beast reared and roared. But, when she brought the embedded barbs of her riding boots against his side, he leaped away and down the bank with a savage scream.

As they thundered across open ground, she felt the babe again pushing against the prequine's pounding shoulder.

"We will escape and I will teach you to ride," she promised the child. "I will teach you to fly a fighter. I will teach you to fight with blade and gun, tactics and war. You will be a great warrior, as your father was. I will learn who these _harag_ are, and where they are weak. We will gather those of the least blood and any with the heart to fight from every corner of the galaxy. We will raise an army, and when you are of age, you will bear the Heart and Wrath against them. We will crush their defenses, topple their icons, and you will bury the Wrath of Furya in their commander's heart before the eyes of his armies."

She continued her litany of promises as they raced along the water's edge until they came to the great stone arch that spanned the river. Zynda didn't hesitate. With a shift and a scramble he changed direction, and suddenly the prequine's hooves were ringing sharply against the stone as he clattered over the bridge. The woman stayed hunched over his neck, fingers locked into his mane to keep her off-center balance as he ran. Even before she had crossed the water, she could smell the terrible scent of destruction through the cloth on her face, but now she found herself in the midst of it: the choking smoke of burning buildings, the cloying sweetness of cooked flesh, the faint sharp bite of energy discharges and over it all the pall of fear and death. Her eyes burned with more than smoke, and her heart burned with more than anger.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why are you doing this?"

But, there was no hope of an answer. She tightened the cloth over her face and applied her heels lightly to the prequine's side. She wanted to set Zynda racing through the streets, to leave this destruction behind her... better yet to carry her into battle... but she couldn't risk running into invaders. However much she _wanted_ to fight, however much she _wanted_ revenge, Shirah's voice drove her... duty bound her... her son needed her... to escape. Conditions, however, now demanded caution, so she raged as she set Zynda pacing toward the spaceport – a cautious speed that allowed her ample time to view the devastation.

She chose their path carefully, pausing at each corner, trying to pick the most direct route to the merchant district. The main streets were clogged with debris and the dead, illuminated by the fires of destruction, but the woman dared not risk that the narrower side streets and alleys were worse. They had no time for backtracking. Zynda traveled in a constant state of agitation, a deep growl rumbling through his throat as he arched his neck lifting his hackles and his mane in an angry display. Everywhere they went there were bodies... not just those who could fight, but every living thing... the young men, the respected elders, the children, and the women...

The women...

An ugly premonition began to stir in that back of the woman's brain for the women were not just being killed, _they_ were being slaughtered, and if they were pregnant...

This wasn't just a conquest; this was an annihilation – genocide in its most virulent form. No more Furya... the woman hadn't wanted to believe Shirah meant it so literally... _Why? WHY?_ The question haunted her, and she resisted the urge to turn away from the horrific destruction of all she loved even as she tried to abandon it. _No. I must see it..._ she though furiously as she lay her hand against her belly and felt the babe within push restlessly against it. _I must remember every horrific detail so I can tell you what was done to your people... so I can make your blood burn for revenge... Someday, my brave one, someday..._

Suddenly a figure emerged from the rubble. The prequine shied and reared, threatening the precarious seat of his rider as he flailed his jagged hooves, but he came down on all fours a moment later as his senses revealed the figure to be a bloody woman in a ragged gown much like his rider's, if not so fine. The stench of the enemy was strong, but the blood that flowed from this woman's wounds carried faint tones that marked her kin to his rider's pack. Such did not mark her safe, but he hesitated awaiting his rider's reaction and when his rider gave no indication of displeasure, he offered only the warning of bared teeth as the woman staggered forward.

"Lady," the woman cried in the ragged voice. "Honored Lady, you must flee!" She rushed the pair as if she had no fear of a full grown battle mount, or perhaps, after what she had survived, it was death she no longer feared.

Zynda's rider watched her warily, staring at the bundle clutched to the woman's chest. The bundle dripped red, the cloth wrapping saturated, and Zynda's rider realized it was not the bundle alone that bled. The woman herself was wounded and the dripping was becoming more profuse for her exertion. She lurched against Zynda's side and reached up with unprecedented familiarity to the rider's swollen belly.

"Oh, Lady, you must flee. You must hide. You must be away from here!" she cried and beneath the fabric of the woman's bloody shift the rider glimpsed the telltale mark every Furyan received during their rites of adulthood. The pure intensity of the handprint's ethereal glow marked the woman's passion, dying giving her emotions an incredible strength. Even holding herself separate from the _Kol'adam,_ Zynda's rider _sensed_ the woman - the utter grief, the unanswerable fury - and when the woman's hand touched the rider the babe within shifted hard.

Zynda's rider cried out as a jolt ran through her nerves, and the woman jerked as if she'd been shocked. Zynda sidled away and snapped at the woman mistaking the source of his rider's discomfort. _ What was that, child? You __**sensed**_ _her?_ the rider gasped. _But what did you __**do**__? _ _That can't be... it's not possible... unless..._

It was one of those philosophical debates, like which came first, the chicken or the egg. Were Alpha Furyans born with a destiny or shaped by their circumstances? But, children were not supposed to be sensitive to the _Kol'adam_... not until they learned discipline and control... not until they underwent the ceremony by the same name during the rites of adulthood... the ceremony that added their heart to that of the _Whole People_. Even then most Furyans could only _sense_ the emotions of the _Whole_ in a limited fashion, like feeling the heat of a distant flame without actually touching it - those emotionally closest, those physically nearest were _sensed_ more clearly while the _Whole_ was _sensed _but distantly.

It was only the Alpha Furyans who were able to feelthe _Whole_ _People_; they who could receive emotions from the _Kol'adam... _receive and _convey... _and in some cases receive and _transform_... abilities that would give them the authority and means to unite the Furyan race in times of need. Shirah had done such a thing, but her trial had been completed long before Zynda's rider was even born. If an Alpha remained alive when another was recognized - something not entirely unheard of as some Alphas were blessed by their bond to the _Whole People_ with exceptionally long life - they were expected to train the next Alpha and pass on their wisdom. In those times no Alpha lived, the new one learned from the temple records and the Chronicles written by the Alphas who had come before.

But, the Chronicles had been kept in the palace temple...

And, if Alphas were born for a purpose, shouldn't there have been a new Alpha trained by Shirah to rally them against _these _invaders? That was a question fraught with implications she was in no position to consider at the moment. Was her son meant to be one of those exalted leaders? What task was _he_ intended to do? With Shirah gone, who would teach him what an Alpha must know? What could he possibly do if there was to be no more Furya? Her heart soared even as it wrenched to think her son might be such a one and born too late to save his people.

The bloody woman fell to the stones as Zynda's rider distractedly controlled her agitated mount, but immediately the woman was struggling to rise. Though her strength was fading, she found enough to lift herself on one arm, the other still clutching the sopping bundle, and her next words shattered the rider's brief contemplation.

"It's the babies," she wailed in anguished torture from the ground as she looked up at Zynda's rider. "That's why they're here... to kill the babies... the sons. All sons of Furya must die," and as she said this her arm fell from her chest revealing an infant soaked in its own blood and its mother's, the two pierced by the same weapon. "Flee, Lady," the woman gasped, "that one son of Furya may live." With that she fell forward sobbing over her child.

Babies! Could that possibly be true? Here to kill the babies... to kill the sons! Zynda's rider was stunned, but the prequine acted, shifting away causing her to grab at his mane to keep her place. There was no time for questions. There was only time to run! She pushed Zynda's pace, wanting again to send him into full blown gallop, though she knew she dared not. He had carried her at breakneck speed safely through a forest of shattered trees - she did not fear the debris - but the invaders had weapons far more powerful than a prequine's hooves.

One block, two... the edge of the merchant district was within sight, and beyond that - if it had escaped interest - if Shirah's promise were true - the spaceport. Hope! Hope for her baby! Hope for a son of Furya! Suddenly, Zynda veered for a side street. The woman pulled him up sharply, confused by his actions. He threw his head, anxious to continue, but there was none of the behavior she knew that told her he was scenting the enemy or had heard some warning. He had merely taken it into his head that he wanted to go another way as he had wanted to cross a bridge that wouldn't bear his weight. Why was he doing this?

She peered in his chosen direction. The narrow avenue was barely illuminated, and while she could see a thinning of debris to one side that might permit Zynda's nimble feet to find a path into the wreckage, it was clear it went nowhere, for further back it was jagged rubble wall to wall as high as the animal's head or more. It was blocked! Nor did she like the idea that the side street would take them off course. What was the beast trying to do?

She pulled his head away, and for the second time that night Zynda offered his mistress open rebellion. He squealed and danced trying to force her back to the side street, but it was the woman who roared this time. "_SHAMA, ZYNDA!_" she shouted, and applied the bit and barbs together, "_SHAMA_!"

The stallion rose up on his hind legs and screamed, shaking his head savagely from side to side, but as he descended she yanked the second rein again and slammed a barbed boot against his side causing him to flinch away from the side street. Then as his fore feet touched ground, she sent both heels jabbing mercilessly into his flesh.

Zynda sprang forward like a bolt from a crossbow with a pain filled screech, and then a low keening began streaming from his mouth as he ran. It was an unnatural sound, and when heard issued by an entire pack - the various tones and notes offered by the individual members blending in eerie chords - it was absolutely haunting. But, the woman had only heard that sound used for one purpose... to mourn.

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**-OoO-**

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**WRITER'S THANKS, NOTES & NEWS:**

**THANKS:**

**WOW! 3 new "faces" with 1 chapter - I'm thrilled!**

**Opah** - Thanks for the _wonderful_ review. I really appreciate your comments! Story is very important to me so I am glad you are enjoying it. I give Vin Diesel and David Twohy full credit for the original blend of fantasy and sci fi, but I have been more than happy to stir the pot a little more and add a few of my own ingredients ;o). I hope you continue to enjoy it.

**Shaden** - I am delighted you are still here too. Thanks for leaving a review. You're right - his mom cares a great deal and the trash is certainly _not_ where _she _intendsfor him to end up. Honestly, though, the biggest question I had when starting this story was not how he got into the trash, but rather how he got OUT. The answer to _your_ question should be resolved in the next chapter, and I hope to have a little surprise twist for you too. The answer to _my_ question will have to wait a little longer :oD. No, I definitely haven't given up on ANY of my stories. Life has just been busy and chapter 19 of Chances has been taking a WHOLE lot more time than I ever expected.

**Ms metaphor** - Thank you _so_ much. Not only did I appreciate your comments, but you got me thinking. Aereon can't play any further role in _Riddick's_ future because in the movie she doesn't even know about him (specifically) until Imam tells her, but she _absolutely_ needs to make another appearance in my story - there's things she needs to know... Thanks for making me realize that. Consider that chapter, when it finally gets posted, dedicated to yourself ;o).

**Phoenix's shadow** - Thanks! Yeah, when TCoR indicated the trash can in question was on Furya I wanted to know how in the world he could have survived too. That's the fun part about fanfiction. If canon leaves a major question unanswered, it just begs you to come up with a plausible explanation of your own. I hope mine will meet your satisfaction :o).


	5. Chapter 5: Standards of Honor

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**Chapter 5**

**Standards Of Honor**

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Shaken by her mount's mutinous behavior and distracted by his mournful keen, his rider did not immediately recognize the speed at which they were traveling, the ringing of Zynda's hooves echoing off the shattered walls like a herald's cry, and by the time she did it was too late.

Too late she realized they were galloping into an intersection.

Too late she recognized that the shattered pieces of wall and mounds of rubble burning on her left were the portions of a building toppled across the street.

Too late she saw the armored soldiers in the downwind cross street.

Too late.

_Too late._

She glimpsed the bright blue flash of an energy discharge from amongst the squad and barely had time to move, to duck and spread a hand to cover her belly - an instinctive but futile gesture of protection against a weapon that could carbonize flesh and shatter bones - before the pulse struck, but impossibly Zynda did. Somehow, in the milliseconds between the pull of the trigger, and the energy's bright flash through the air, the prequine reared and twisted mid-stride lifting her out of the bolt's path, shifting the thickness of his chest and neck between her and the oncoming blue lightning. He caught the bolt with the forward point of his shoulder and a mangled sound somewhere between a grunt and scream was forced from his lungs as the massive force of the impact threw the ill-balanced prequine off his feet.

The animal went over hard, and the woman shoved her weight off the stirrups, adding enough drive to launch herself from Zynda's back before she could be pinned beneath his crushing weight. She had been riding since she was three years old, and by ten she could dismount at any speed, under any conditions, and end on her feet ready to take action, but she had never tried such a maneuver so awkwardly balanced.

Sheer chance and skills trained to the point of instinct served her in good stead. Muscles wrenched and tendons strained, but she was able to control the momentum of her dismount. Her shifted center of balance prevented her from keeping her feet, but she managed to send herself backwards and redirect the remaining force of her fall into horizontal motion without breaking bones... without tumbling wildly... but it was not done gently. She slammed against the ground feeling her lungs explosively deflated with the impact and skidded backwards in a protective curl around her belly. She couldn't even cry out as she slid along on her shoulder and back feeling first the fabric of her gown, and then her skin, shred on the ragged terrain beneath her.

The odds of finding a clear path into the burning rubble of a toppled building unobstructed by wreckage should have been beyond reckoning, and yet her skidding body found one. She came to a rest sheltered from enemy view between piles of debris and lay unable to move as stunned lungs fought to regain function. Her back was a mass of pain, and every traumatized attempt to breath sent sheets of fire through her nerves. Nor did she struggle alone. In the street she could see her prone prequine as he thrashed briefly, and with his movement she felt a charge of hope. If Zynda had survived... The animal kicked, his body moving weakly, his head twisting around to see her as he strove to get up - to return to his mistress, but then a shudder ran through the stallion's frame. His brilliant eyes flared with wild pain, and she hadn't even breath to cry his name!

In the next heartbeat Zynda's struggle ended. For a single moment his entire body was taut, and then the prequine's frame went slack, and his muzzle impacted the stone as his head fell. Though it tried to fall flat, his neck's twisted position left his head canted upright at an unnatural angle still trying to see behind him and the woman struggled to cry out. _No! _her mind cried, _Zynda_! _My heart's friend!_ The prequine's cat-like eyes remained open, but the bright spark that gave them life was gone and by the time the woman recovered her breath enough to move, the beautiful iridescence of her companion's eyes had already begun to cloud.

Grief ripped another ragged wound in her heart; grief for the animal who had served her so long and faithfully... for the friend who had been her heart's companion through so many journeys. The woman had known other prequines, but _this_ prequine had been a kindred mind, perhaps a kindred soul. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl to his side, to stroke upon his brindle hide while warmth remained, and to curl up and sob against him for all the losses she had suffered in so brief a time... to offer up the mourning cry his pack could not, but she had no time for sorrow. Not then. Not now. Not ever again. There was only time for fear... only time to run...

"Lensors," an imperial voice commanded from a closer position, "Take the fore! Find the rider." While she had been relearning how to breathe, the enemy had been advancing!

The woman scanned her location desperately. She was on foot now, but if she could get away... if she could lose them... maybe she could still get to the spaceport. Her gaze fell on a slit of darkness between the buildings on the other side of the street. The beginning of the merchant district! An alleyway between the stores!

She gathered up her gown and scrambled awkwardly away on hands and feet and sometimes knees, somehow finding a path through the burning wreckage that had so recently housed Furyan families... overwhelmed by the grisly evidence that many of those families had not gotten out before it fell. Her body screamed where muscles and connective tissues had taken the abuse of her wrenching dismount; her shoulder and back screamed where her flesh had been flayed; her hand, knees and limbs found jagged edges in the wreckage, but she persisted. _If only..._ was a tragic litany in her mind as she forced herself along, _if only... _

_If only_ Furya hadn't persisted in their obsessive isolationist philosophy. _If only_ the Parliament of Elders had decided to answer the hail earlier. _If only_ Shirah had been able to warn them sooner. _ If only_ Zynda could have used the foot bridge. _If only_ she could have circumvented these troops by going through Zynda's alley. _If only... If only_ she hadn't been so stupid! The self condemnation stabbed through her gut. _I did this! I let him run._ Grief pierced her heart once more, ripping fresh the other wounds she had, perforce, been trying not to heed. She had been riding Zynda the first time she had met her husband. A pack of Scaled Wolves had moved in from the wilderness and were ravaging herds. Her family had been invited to join the hunt, and she had been paired with him - a rather blatant attempt at matchmaking - but together they slew four of the seven beasts, and after that they had raced...

Her husband.

Her home.

Her people.

The embers of her rage, briefly stunned into quiescence, suddenly flared hot again. In the shadow of the alley's entrance, she stepped up upon a bench against the wall and looked back over the debris surprised to find she could pick out the squad. It was not a large group. There were only 10 men, if two of them could be called men at all – those two moved with an inhuman motion, on all fours and yet upright, accompanied by two others that almost seemed to be controlling their movements through devices connected to leashes. Another five remained arrayed around a sixth. All the men were armored, but of them only the 5 carried weapons in hand, and only two of those were energy. The rest carried great semi-circular axes massive in size and weight –- deadly if they hit you, but ponderous in their wielding - and that was something she did not fear. Thus far, no man who was not Furyan had been able to match her in hand to hand combat regardless of their weapon. Indeed, there were few who _were_ Furyan who could best her... at least not without taking on considerable risk to themselves in the process, but not now... not this way.

For the first time she cursed her condition. Were it not for the child she would not hesitate to fling herself into battle, armored or no. She would find a weapon amid this wreckage, make-shift or real, and she would send their souls to back to their gods in pieces...

But she _did_ have a child... she had a _son_... a son of Furya. Could that truly be what they sought? Could a race be so evil?

"Where is she?" the sixth man shouted impatiently. "Where _is_ she?"

Rank radiated from him like a banner. His armor was more ornate. His helm was distinctive with three faces besides his own so there was no direction he did not seem to look and a chill of impossible familiarity went down her spine. It made no sense, so she ignored it. All seeing was, perhaps, the effect the man desired, but to the woman it only said commander, leader, target... _ If only_...

Down the alley... you must go now!

The voice unfolded in her mind so gently it stirred no reaction beyond mild surprise. It was like a whisper, but not one heard with ears. It seemed familiar somehow, and she knew she must obey it this time. As the men handling the leashes fiddled with the controls and the hunched figures seemed to scan the rubble with sickly lit lens fixed over their faces, the woman began to ease back deeper into the darkness.

_Run! Go, now!_

"There are too many newly dead and the fires are disrupting readings," she heard a leash handler answer. "There is just too much heat. We can't pin point the rider."

_Run!_

The woman turned to flee into the darkness... closed her eyes to...

"Then she'll be found another way," the commander shouted angrily. "Warriors, scatter, search the rubble and find the breeder. I _want_ that wretched brat she carries! Let no son of Furya survive!"

The woman spun to face the voice. Let no son of Furya...! The woman in the street was right! They are here for the children... the sons!

Her husband.

Her home.

Her people.

Her SON!

ALL SONS!

And all daughters by default so no more sons could be bred.

_Run!_ The soundless whisper commanded, _RUN!_ but it went unheard.

Rage grew in the woman's breast subduing the physical pain that racked her body. Without even thinking she opened herself to the _Kol'adam _rejoining the _Whole_, adding her rage to the _Whole_ and becoming aware of the unhindered, unbridled righteous fury of an entire race betrayed, for indeed it was a great deal like betrayal. They had trusted that if they kept to themselves, that the rest of the galaxy would honor their wishes. Over the millennia there _had_ been others - a paltry few - that had learned it was ill advised to stir Furyans to war, but never before had it been like this... without warning... without provocation... without conscience. Never before had the purpose been _annihilation_ of the Furyan race. _WHY?_

She _sensed_ the great anger swelling the _Kol'adam. _ It was a vast overwhelming anger, but it was _not_ overpowering. The discipline and control she had been taught were too well ingrained to let the _Kol'adam _control_ her_. There was no more shameful crime among her people then to let oneself be pushed to act by emotions not their own. Even when open to the _Kol'adam, _every Furyan was accountable for their own actions_. _

No. This rage was her own. These thoughts were her own. This _choice_ was her own.

She closed her eyes again and with a careful shift of muscles she lowered the lenses that altered her vision. Microscopic bio-prisms collected and focused the ambient light paling the darkness of the alleyway even as the lenses put gentle pressure on a nerve triggering an impulse through the sphere of her eye. The faint charge reacted with an enzyme found in the Furyan vitreous humor and initiated a chain reaction. The gel between the iris and the optic nerve polarized, shifting the spectrum of lights her eyes saw with and it would stay that way so long as the lens touched upon the nerve. A cloud of violet swept across her vision and in moments the dark of the alley was replaced with shapes and details in shades of fuchsia contrasted by white and black and hints of blue.

Darkness was no longer a hindrance to her although she thought it might very possibly be for these invaders. Their helmets showed no sign of sight augmenting technology. She supposed it was possible they needed none, but she remembered a doctor who had petitioned the Elders just a few years ago. He wanted to study Furyan sight because he said it was unique. The Parliament had finally permitted it, but only after he agreed to certain stipulations. They had given him a "background" to memorize - a "Furyan" identity - and made him come in the Season of Long Days when his lack could be more easily concealed, which was ironic since he had, in fact, come to study their ability to see through the dark.

He had been fascinated that the lenses and glands were virtually undetectable until they matured at puberty forcing youngsters to hone other senses - which he also claimed were abnormally acute - during the Season of Long Nights. He also thought it bizarre that use of the lenses required training not instinct. A few months into his studies the doctor requested to speak with his sponsors off world, and out of curiosity the woman arranged to be in his escort to the OWM Station where such off world contact was possible. Although he would have liked complete privacy, such was not afforded him entirely so she had been privy to the conversation.

He had excitedly discussed their lenses with his distant partners talking about the possibility of things called "patents" and had suggested that if the enzymatic reaction could not be duplicated, a more permanent "reconfiguration and modification" to the optic nerve might be designed to approximate the polarization effect. His partners had sounded doubtful, but that had not curbed the doctor's enthusiasm, and he left Furya shortly after.

What it meant to the woman now was that she might very well have an advantage, and as she scanned the alleyway with her Furyan vision, she realized she had more than one. The alley was narrow; a tight colonnaded passageway between buildings made even more so by the bench and a trash receptacle shoved against the wall near the entrance. The passage was simply too tight for more than one soldier to come at her at a time. It also left things too tight to comfortably maneuver with a sword... and the axes these soldiers carried were much larger than swords. In fact, without massive strength their axes would be near useless in here for there was no room to swing... no room to build momentum for a strike. She weighed her odds. Her size against their armor - she felt she might still have the advantage in maneuverability. Her awkwardness against their blindness - that tipped the balance. She might not be able to move as quickly as she liked, but you could not hit what you could not see. She had seen their dead in the streets as well. Armor was their advantage, but this armor was not impervious. One good strike was all she needed... if she had the right weapon.

_NO! No weapon. Run!_

The woman froze as the voice whispered in her head cooling her fury momentarily. _RUN!_

But outside the alleyway the multi-faced leader's voice carried from just beyond the flames and rubble. "Spread out! Find her! Don't let that child survive!"

Her anger surged again to echo the fury of the _Kol'adam_. They destroyed the palace; killed her husband and friends, they killed Zynda, they were killing her people; THEY WERE _KILLING_ THE CHILDREN. THE_ CHILDREN_!

_RUN!_ the voice commanded, but her rage roared louder.

"Not till I have seen the color of their blood!" she snarled back reaching instinctively for the sword she had been forced to leave behind, but her torn fingers found a hilt regardless.

Its shape and bare metal hilt were unfamiliar to her hand. It had a smooth finish lined by stippled ridges running from the deep indentions of its triangular two lobed pommel through a band bearing an intricate seal around its middle then to its brief saddle shaped guard. Her hand recognized the skilled craftsmanship of the weapon. The hilt felt dangerously functional in her grip, but as she drew the blade, she found _it_ appeared something else entirely.

On the blade side of the quillians small smooth fangs flanked a dagger blade whose coarse surface widened slightly then tapered to a sturdy point, but the edges were pocked and holey and its interior was pierced through the thickness of the blade in jagged parallel rifts. It almost seemed the blade was decayed and corroded except that there was a singular precision to the "damage", and the material that formed the blade would never permit such petty insults to its substance. Harder and more inflexible than any alloy commonly known, this blade was Furyan, made with Furyan elements. This weapon was unique in its craft and appearance; every cavity, every "imperfection" laid out in perfect symmetry shaping a blade that looked - for all its incomparable strength and sharpness - wholly unwholesome and wicked. _This_ was the Wrath of Furya.

How appropriate, she thought.

_Run! _the voice in her head still pled faintly, _It's not too late! _ But to her mind it was. Beyond the narrow walls of the alley entrance she caught movement. Seeing in the alternate spectrum made it difficult to determine exactly how far the illumination of the fires penetrated, but she set herself behind a decorative column she knew would be well within the gloom of the narrow walls. In her belly the babe within shifted sharply, in what almost seemed anger... or protest... but the woman caressed his restless shape growling, "I will draw first blood, my son, but you will draw the last. With the Wrath of Furya I begin this, and with the Wrath _you_ will end it. Furya will be avenged."

Perhaps if she had had reason to draw the _Heart_ of Furya as well, or even the desire to consider the true value of the treasured blades, the irony of her choice would have been made clear, but she had neither.

Crafted after a time when anger in the _Kol'adam_ had spread like a cancer and driven an undisciplined people to unjustifiable acts that left them hated and worldless, The Heart and Wrath were made to embody the very philosophies that now governed Furyan thought; familiar items reshaped to teach an entire race a new way to pattern their mind. Indeed, their people were not called Furyans for what they were, as most outsiders thought - although fury was still very much a part of them as were all emotions - but rather so that they would never forget what they had once become. The blades' every perfection or imperfection were representative of an ideal that set Furyan's apart, individually and as a whole, from their dark uncontrolled past.

The two weapons were a perfect complement to one another in combat when form and function were blended and tempered by use. Sheathed side by side they were undoubtedly matched and matchless workmanship, and yet they were different from one another. The duel lobed pommel of the Heart was larger, less angular, and the quillians were extended to offer more protection to the wielder. In addition, the Heart's color was a pristine silver contrasted by accents of a golden alloy whereas the Wrath's substance, tainted by shades of brass, left its accents seeming plain. These were subtle differences, however, that did little to draw away from weapons' obvious quality and "belonging." Not unless they were drawn would their truest differences and their lessons in contrast be most clearly seen.

The Heart of Furya was a long sword, the greater of the two weapons, reminding the people of Furya that their heart was their greatest strength, and that love should always be greater than wrath - even toward one that might be an enemy. To further set it apart, the Heart's blade was exquisite, flawless and perfectly balanced as the Furyan mind should be balanced, its emotions disciplined and tempered by wisdom. Its look, its feel, its weight in the hand all clearly promised it was a sound weapon that could be trusted, just as a heart guided by sound judgment and not tainted by blind passion could be expected to make wise decisions. Wrought with ancient techniques that gave it a strength and flexibility beyond its elements' natural structure, a faint lace-like pattern - like the grain of an exotic wood - was visible in the metal and reminiscent of the wootz steel of ancient Earth prime.

This made the Heart a contrast within itself for it had the temper to run through an armored opponent, and yet was resilient enough to withstand a bend that would snap a lesser blade. The result of this crafting was a plain reminder to the people that they should also remain clear minded and flexible, and even more importantly, strong _and_ forgiving, a lesson echoed in its form. Sharpened on one edge and dulled on the other it reminded, among other things, that while love must sometimes hurt, it must also be capable of taking blows without cutting in return and that even when dealing with an enemy, _not_ drawing blood was sometimes a wiser choice of action.

The Wrath of Furya was its opposite. The smaller of the two, it reminded that rage was the Furyan people's greatest weakness, and it should never be greater than the heart or their capacity to care. The ragged double edged dagger blade was sharp on both sides, a reminder that anger cut both ways and that judgment clouded by anger could casually offer wounds - even fatal ones - to friend, foe and self with equal ease. Its appearance was an odious reminder that uncontrolled anger was ugly, and like a heart letting anger rule, the Wrath's whole structure was tainted to its core. The addition of another element during its forging gave the Wrath its brassy cast as well as great strength, but it left the Wrath rigid and inflexible - a warning that anger not tempered by love was unforgiving, and things that could not bend could be broken.

But the single most important lesson the Wrath sought to teach, by its contrast to the Heart, by its unwholesome appearance, by its cruel blade, by its rigid alloy - and even by a faint flaw in its balance - was that fury impaired judgment. By its shape the Wrath was made for flight as well as hand, but its shaping left the pommel weight just a shade over perfect and begged Furya to remember it took very little anger to impair wisdom... that anger best served when it was held close at hand, separate from the heart and tightly under control... that fury loosed could cause judgment to go wide leaving the true enemy unscathed, and even placing others in the path of danger.

There were these and other lessons deliberate and implied in the symbolism of the Heart and Wrath - lessons for government, for contracts, for war; such that over time volumes were dedicated to keeping the lessons embodied in the Heart and Wrath fresh in the minds of the people - but _none_ of these were in the woman's mind now. Never before had hate and anger so filled her heart; never since the fall of they who would become Furyans had rage so blazed in the _Kol'adam_, however justified _this_ rage was. The woman remembered nothing of the disciplines of control or separation. She wanted only blood, and the deep raging fury of the _Kol'adam_ played harmony to her own. Her hand tightened on the Wrath's hilt feeling the warmth of new blood ease down her arm.

A shape moved to fill the mouth of the alley. To another it would have been a silhouette, a great dark shape back lit by fire, but the woman saw something different. Although the fires glared in her Furyan vision, she saw a man in the fuchsia halos. A collar of metal came up around the base of the helmet protecting his neck, but his face was open revealing hard features split by a long straight nose. The warrior was exceptionally tall giving the illusion of trim to his long frame, but there was surprising width through the shoulders, an attribute further accented by the rounded pauldrons overlapping his fan banded beast plate. The armor was form fitting, and the woman acknowledged the strength this warrior had earned wielding the massive axe.

He stood in the opening evaluating the darkness and then glanced back over his shoulder at the strange men called 'lensors' who were just entering the debris field. Behind them came the leader flanked by the two warriors armed with energy weapons. The woman snarled softly and saw the warrior stiffen as the walls carried the sound forward. _Sharp hearing. Come, doomed one, come look for the child you would kill,_ she taunted silently. _Come dance with me in the darkness,_ and to entice him further she whimpered just as softly.

The warrior's head snapped forward again, and she saw a wolfish grin crack his grim face. His thoughts were plain. Why should he fear a frightened pregnant woman hiding in the shadows? He growled in anticipation, and then, with a glance at the narrow confines of the alley, tossed his axe and caught it up near the head shortening his grasp on the weapon. The woman took warning. Unwieldy through it remained, this man presumed the strength to maneuver the polearm one handed. Her first strike must incapacitate.

She let him come stalking warily into the gloom, keeping her silence so as to not give away her position. He did not fear her, and that was to her advantage, for he came faster than was wise; faster than his eyes could truly adjust to the low light. As he passed her position, she struck! With a fluidity that belied her laden condition she stepped out behind him, the swing of her arm a seamless part of the motion. Furya's stronger gravity had honed its people well. The woman's bones were harder, her muscles denser, and her strength greater even _without_ a Furyan rage to drive her. Although the blade jarred hard against the metal sending a shock up her arm, the armor failed to hold against the Wrath's Furyan alloy driven by the woman's Furyan anger.

But, her movement had not been unnoticed. Perhaps it was her boot grinding against the stone, or a whisper of whistle as the Wrath's holey edges sliced the air, but as her arm descended the warrior's head turned, his torso shifting with it. The Wrath's ragged blade pierced almost to the hilt, off its target by mere centimeters. In some cases, such a mistake could be the difference between life and death, but the woman knew this blow was solid... the area still vital...

The warrior roared as the blade plunged into his back just left of his spine, but he continued to turn, raising his axe. She tried to keep her grip on the Wrath, to withdraw it to strike again, but it was wedged in the armor and her bloody hand was too slick upon the metal hilt. The force of his rotation pulled her around and jerked the dagger from her grasp as it tossed her toward the opposite wall. She caught herself lightly and spun to put the stone to her back expecting to see the warrior crumpling to the ground and saw instead his axe cutting an arc toward her as he continued to spin. _How is he still standing? _She instantly judged the trajectory of the arc and flattened herself against the wall to let the blade skim by, prepared to dodge deeper into the darkness, but her profile was not the one she'd worn in combat for the past so many years.

The axe cut inches deep near the top of the swell and while she did not scream, her reaction was audible. On its heels the pain and shock of the attack sent an intense contraction ripping through the injured muscle and throughout her abdomen causing an involuntary cry of agonized surprise.

The warrior let the massive axe continue its arc even as he staggered forward his offhand arm outstretched. His mailed fist closed over her throat as the contraction rippled through causing her to clutch at the wound and belly.

"Your mine, breeder!" he snarled, holding her pinned against the wall. "The honor of the kill is mine!"

She could see his face twisted in a grimace of pain, and so near she found his eyes - unlike any eyes she'd ever seen; their centers like the deep of night - boring into her own.

"You should..." she gasped against the spasm that turned her womb rock hard beneath her skin, "...you should be dead... dying!"

"Necromongers do not die before their due time," the warrior snarled in a pained laced voice. Then he contemplated his own statement. He shifted his shoulders experimentally and grimaced, but his features took on an expression resembling mad ecstasy. "And, obviously it is not mine, but..." he raised his axe into her line of sight, "...it _is_ yours."

The shrieking pain that wracked her was nearly incapacitating, but panic gave her strength and focus beyond the agony as he pushed the great blade closer to her throat. She struggled against his grip, trying to wrench herself free, one hand pressed against her bleeding stomach, and as she did her hand bumped upon a familiar shape near her waist. Her belt was gone, lost somewhere in her mad skid across the ground, but snared in the fibers of the damaged fabric of her gown was her Honor Blade! She left off fighting the hand around her throat and grasp the sheath holding it firm as her other hand drew the blade and in the same upward motion she dragged the blade across the inside of his elbow where his vamside of his elbow where his vand her throat and grasp the sheathe of her honor blade holding it strady as she _brace gapped.

The warrior cried aloud as he lost his grip upon her, and she ducked as his axe slammed into the stone where her neck had been, the force of the blow stinging her raw back with bits of stone. She knew better than to try and dodge around the man. The alley was too narrow, and his axe would find her before she was beyond its reach. That left only the entrance... slip out and lose herself among the piles of rubble... find another way...

She scrambled for the opening, the firelight glaring her vision, but before she could lift her lenses she suddenly caught a chill, a presence, a _danger_ straight before her.

A hand as cold as ice caught her by the throat, lifted her up and slammed her against the wall above the bench. Her breath escaped in a soundless cry as agony and a stunning cold filled every nerve. Moments later the hand was replaced by another, also cold, but flesh and blood encased in metal. She was held suspended, her booted ankles pinned between the metal of the man's armored legs before her and the metal bench seat behind as her hands sought to pull the iron grip from her neck, but to no avail.

With no time to shift her lenses she beheld her captor through shades of fuchsia, and saw she was held by the multi-faced leader himself. A part of her mind still cried _why?_ and before her was the one who could give answer, but the questions died in her thoughts as she met the man's eyes. If she had thought the warrior's eyes unnaturally dark, it was only by comparison to the night, for beside these they were pale. The leader's eyes were dark beyond a mere absence of light - they were empty, soulless, devouring, hungry, and they wanted nothing more than to destroy her. The air that remained in her lungs begged exit as a scream and she quickly, intentionally, sought to escape his unholy gaze the only way she could.

As the fuchsia auras transitioned to skin and shadow, the emptiness of the dark eyes faded to white and iris... but the malevolence remained.

"Well done, warrior, you've flushed the prey," the man praised in cultured tones, and as he spoke her victim walked up with greater ease than should be possible for a man with dagger embedded in his back.

Suddenly she groaned as she realized her contraction had eased, and the child within was shifting, protesting its sudden confinement by pushing back sharply against the tender walls. There was a sharp piecing as startling as it was painful for the fact that it was initiated from the inside out as the infant shoved a foot from the womb through the gash in her belly and kicked at the armored arm that held his mother aloft. The multi-faced leader looked down and lifted his free hand to drag a fingertip gently across the sole of the little foot as if it were a novelty, and the babe within spasmed trying to force another cry from its mother.

"How convenient," the commander commented with satisfaction. "You've already begun."

The woman would not have thought she could struggle harder, but as the brutal promise of the savaged bodies in the streets suddenly became her reality, Zynda's rider found a new surge of terror to fuel her desperation even as her vision began to narrow and her muscles weaken... her brain and body demanding more oxygen than the multi-faced leader was permitting her throat to suck in.

_No! Not my son! My son is supposed to live!_

She saw a macabre knife appear in the man's armored hand and recognized one last rational thought before her senses were overwhelmed by blind animalistic panic.

If only...

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The squad of soldiers stood outside the alley.

"Gratifying," the Lord Marshal smiled looking at his bloody hands.

Even the infant had been insolent... strong and exceptionally aware... remarkably defiant. He could feel it in the tiny soul that burned in his hand... in the fire that burned in those tiny eyes. They suggested great potential were the child given the opportunity to grow and feeling that brightness dim to insubstantiality filled him with uncommon elation.

"Another Furyan breeder and brat that will not live to challenge me," he crowed and then looked at the tall warrior who had flushed his prey from its dark hiding hole. "You have a souvenir, warrior."

The man had been chosen as much by chance as any intention. Though his council had originally protested their supreme commander's boldness, the Lord Marshal had insisted he was going to be _personally_ involved in destroying these arrogant sons of Furya, and he had meant more than merely directing troops. As the Lord Marshal, the Holy Half Dead who had seen the Underverse, he had little to fear from these wretched mortals. Further, the one Aereon foretold had not yet been born, and he was going to see that it never would be, but to mollify his council's unease, he had appropriated a 'clensor' squad. It suited his purpose. It was not the initial decimation he desired to partake of. He wanted to hunt these wretched breeders down like animals and watch the life grow cold in their eyes by his own hand. Would that he could personally execute every member of this upstart race himself, but alas, even the Holy Half Dead who had seen the Underverse had their limitations.

Perhaps, if the gods smiled on him, it _would_ be his hand that slayed his challenger or the line it would have sprung from, but even if it was not, this day would still be recorded in the annals of Necromonger history. Its true significance might not be appreciated by any but himself, but Lord Marshal Zhylaw knew it would indeed be a day of days. He was assuring Necromonger domination of this 'verse and the next in one bold stroke... _and_ that it would be _he_ who led the Armada over the Threshold. As the final Lord Marshal, the title Zhylaw the Last would become _his_ through time without end. To this end he had given specific instructions to his commanders as to just _how _he wanted this elimination carried out... to the _smallest_ of details. Indeed, he considered this deliciously paradoxical detail his greatest chef d'oeuvre thus far. If it was not by his hand that this Furyan challenger died ere it could ever be, it would most certainly be by his will.

But a good number of Furyan breeders _had_ died at the hands of he and his crew this dark Furyan night, nor was that the only satisfying aspect of the evening. The Lord Marshal had also discovered a man among the clensor squad whose manner lifted killing beyond simple bloodshed to a lethal art form. In this man's hands, the axe was more than just a weapon; it was a partner in a deadly dance. The Lord Marshal could appreciate that quality in a man. This dagger business was yet another curious anomaly that lifted the warrior from the common soldiery. One would think such an injury would escort a man to the Threshold, but a true Necromonger did not die before his due time... Did the gods have other things planned for this warrior?

The soldier removed his helmet and tried to look over his shoulder to see the hilt protruding from his back but failed. "Yes, Lord Marshal," he answered submissively, and then he dropped to one knee, bowing low so that the dagger jutted upward from his back like a standard, it's bloody hilt gleaming in the firelight. "It is yours. The kill was yours."

"A painful lesson. Lensors serve a purpose, warrior. Do not chase your quarry into darkness or you may find your due time is sooner than you realize."

"That lesson is learned. I wish only the blade could remain as it is," the soldier replied in a fervent voice. "It would be a constant reminder that I am no longer a purposeless breeder dominated by pain and death, but a holy warrior serving you." He glanced up briefly, his eyes burning with an intensity that rivaled the fires burning in the rubble. "The greatest of the Holy Half Dead, the one who will take us to the Threshold and the Underverse. I would welcome that pain. I would offer it as a sacrifice to the faith in your service, but the blade and my life are yours."

The Lord Marshal smiled. "Boldly said, my warrior. What is your name?"

"Irgun, Lord," the warrior answered.

The Lord Marshal nodded in satisfaction as he settled the baldric of the sword he had taken from the woman more securely over his shoulder. Irgun was not alone in noticing the baldric was made to hold two blades - and the match to the sword was proudly protruding from Irgun's back - but the Lord Marshal rather liked its new location in light of Irgun's reasons for leaving it there.

"The sword is sufficient for me. Keep the blade, Irgun, I honor your artful defiance of mortal pain. In fact, I insist the blade remain where it is forever." Irgun looked up quickly in surprise, grim satisfaction filling his eyes. "Your faith does me honor, Irgun, rise and join the ranks of your Lord Marshal's elite."

The soldier rose and grinned.

"Yes, I think you will serve me well there." Then the Lord Marshal turned to the rest of the squad. "Call another clensor squad to finish scouring this wreckage, and let us go find new prey. We will eliminate these Furyan whelps once and for all."

_None shall challenge me!_

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**-OoO-**

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**WRITER'S THANKS, NEWS & NOTES: **

**THANKS:**

**ms metaphor - **Your welcome for the update and thanks for the review! I'm glad you're still enjoying Grace; hope this chapter kept things moving. I have to say, rating wise, the worst chapter is yet to be posted, so let me know when the time comes. It's been interesting considering Riddick and the people he's never known - the old nature vs. nurture argument. How much of you is what you're born with and how much is what you're raised with? So far Universal has left a lot of blank space in both areas which makes it a lot of fun for writers like me to come up to stuff to fill it :o).

**Shaden - **I'm still here and writing - yea! Thanks for the comments. I'm tickled I still have you hooked :o). So now that I've answered _your_ questions (I hope) I get to start working on mine. So far as the rating goes, it's not so much graphic as it is disturbing - at least it is for me so I'll have to see what you guys think. It should be the next chapter or maybe the one after - I have to see how the chapter's flow.

**Thanks again, both of you, for your comments!**

**NEWS:**

Well, the kids are back in school, but if that means I'll have more time or less, I really don't know yet. I didn't have nearly as much as I thought I would over the summer, and one story in particular is being difficult to boot, but they are ALL still on the table. Stick with me, please. I love your company :o)

**NOTES:**

**RE: POTENTIAL RATING CHANGE**  
I don't write graphic gore, but the results of war can _not_ be depicted _nicely_, particularly this one. I have begun to wonder if the rating might need to be changed, but I agree with my reviewers that "T" is acceptable _for now_. The 'worst' chapter, however, will be either the next one or the one after - I'll have to see how the chapters break. I'll let you know at the beginning of the chapter in question when we get there. _If any reader, at any time, feels that the rating should be raised I ask them to contact me by __SEND MESSAGE through my profile__. _I will admit it won't take much to sway me so if you are a regular reader, and you do not usually check the stories that fall in the "M" rating, setting up a story alert for this particular story might be advisable. _If_ the rating does change, it will likely be done without further warning and it will be done solely for the aspects of violence and war.

**»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»**

**My promise to faithful readers:**As much as I hate it when other writers get 'distracted' by other stories and don't update the one **I'm** reading as fast as I'd enjoy, I have discovered that there are times other stories insist on being written. The result? I have four stories currently 'in progress' for your perusal – as they are all of a 'back story' nature in Riddick's timeline they would occur thusly: Saved by Grace, Be Still: Chances, Turn About and Nigh Unto Christmas.  
The good news is that each story has been generally plotted and outlined, and only ("only" LOL) needs to be fleshed out. The bad? That takes time, especially when divided between 4 stories, 3 kids, (2 six and under), 1 husband and the life that contains them all and more, so writing time comes at a premium. What it means for my readers is that updates to this story may be intermittent. I do, however, **promise** it won't be abandoned barring death or other equally drastic life change. Updates will come, please be patient, (and, of course, be aware that **feedback** is an incredibly powerful motivator ;o) but until then, may God bless you all the time in-between.


	6. Chapter 6: But By Grace, There Go I

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**Chapter 6**

**But By Grace, There Go I**

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Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid, son of Methus of Caden province stood on the balcony of his father's home and looked out over the city. It was late. Everyone else had already retired for the evening, but he had been drawn to admire the view. In the distance, just over the tops of the buildings, beyond the woods, he could see the walls of the citadel on the plateau above. The pale light of the twin moons made its stones seem to glow faintly, and further in the distance, in the night sky, the strange comet glowed with an even brighter luminescence. It was all, save for the comet, familiar, comfortable, known, and Hanan appreciated it in a way few Furyan's could. He had thought he would never be allowed to enter the House of Arron, son of Javid, son of Methus, son of Javid of Caden Province again. Indeed, he thanked God that he had even been allowed to set foot on Furya again, but to be _welcomed_ into his childhood home, to be embraced by his family... by his _father_ again... it had been more than he could hope for. It had truly been an answer to prayer.

Seven long years had passed since he had seen his homeworld; several months longer than that if you counted the time in cryosleep, which he did. The _Kol'adam_ never slept, thus there was a part of every Furyan that remained awake even in cryo. While others races slept, it could best be said that Furyans only dozed. It was one reason that Furyans rarely traveled beyond their own system; that and the other - the greater - was that the average Furyan was not aware of what existed beyond their own system, and most were content with that.

There were a few, a growing few, who saw the stars and wanted to know what they were beyond lights in the sky that foretold the times and seasons. There was enough knowledge available that those who did not desire to remain completely ignorant did not have to, but their diligence in seeking that information marked them. Hanan had been such a one, and as he grew older he found certain things expected of him, certain classes recommended to him... expectations and classes in ethics and honor, in Furyan philosophy, in Furyan history... classes of a greater depth than were expected of his peers. It was not necessarily surprising. The education system was designed to recognize interests and gifts in children as they grew and help guide and prepare them for an occupation and life that would be both fulfilling and useful, but Hanan had never dreamed where his would lead.

The philosophies and reasons for Furya's isolation had been ingrained in him, the importance of keeping these traditions seated deeply early on, and when he was finally accepted for Off World Monitoring training he knew his life had changed. Unlike his father, he could not come home and talk about his day. He could not complain about a co-worker overloading one of the precious fuses in the interstellar carrier detection system, nor could he even begin to articulate the ridiculously simple marvel he felt every time he was permitted to give a space craft vectors through Furyan space. He himself had even spoken to people who lived light years away circling stars in completely different solar systems. Hanan could not find words to express the thrill he felt hearing their voices. That was just as well since he was not allowed to speak of it to anyone outside the OWM System. While not required, this limitation tended to encourage OWMS personnel to find mates that shared an OWMS classification, but Hanan had not found one his heart would claim... not until he met Charis, much to his family's dismay.

His family's first grievance against Charis was that she was out of province - far further out of province than they could have ever originally imagined. She was, in fact, so far Out of Province as to be out of this world... quite literally.

It had been long debated, but the blown fuse Hanan might have liked to complain about was only one event in a long series of events that spelled the eventual doom of the current OWMS equipment. It was old and it was quickly becoming evident that Furya needed systems far more sensitive than anything they were capable of building with their intentional ignorance of deep space matters. To this end the Parliament of Elders finally contracted with an off world company who would discreetly supply a new system. This contract also included the temporary assignment of technicians to install and train the OWMS members in the new system's use and maintenance. Charis was one such technician. She marked herself quickly, taking an interest in all things Furyan. She quickly completed the rigorous cultural indoctrination the Parliament required of all the off worlders wishing to set foot on Furya, and she willingly committed to the restrictive regulations they required so she could live unobtrusively among the Furyan people.

By the time Hanan met her, she had a small dwelling across the river from the OWMS compound. The new equipment had been installed, and the long process of training was ready to begin. Hanan had felt an immediate attraction to the confident dark skinned woman, and as he sought her company outside the training deck he discovered interstellar monitoring equipment was not the only subject she had come to teach. Teaching circuits and switches and protocols and buttons and algorithms might have been what she was paid to do, but teaching others about the love of a savior called Jesus Christ was what she felt she had been _called _to do. To Charis her job was just a means to a much greater end for she was also a Christian missionary.

At first Hanan found this offensive that she would presume herself superior, that she would arrogantly consider her beliefs were wiser than the ones his people had followed for generations, but he came to realize that wasn't what she thought at all. As he listened to what she had to say, he heard deep truths and he felt his heart responding. By the time her OWMS contract was completed Hanan had fallen in love... with both Charis and her Jesus. He counted the costs, and made his choice.

Charis would have stayed on Furya, but such was not granted to her so when she left, Hanan went with her. Nor, as he had not received his father's blessing, did Hanan did feel right promising himself on Furyan soil so they waited until they reached Charis's homeworld to take their vows in a Christian ceremony. And because Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid, son of Methus of Caden Province was looked upon strangely off world, they used her surname instead.

Hanan's family had been appalled by each successive choice, but seven years later Hanan returned to Furya, his wife over six months pregnant with their first child... a child who would be his parent's first grandchild and the firstborn son of a firstborn son. Hanan dearly desired to honor his sire through the ancient Furyan custom of _Quatinell_ – the passing of the name of the father's father to the son's son. Upon learning of his son's intent, Aarron, son of Javid, son of Methus, son of Javid of Caden Province, had been willing to overlook a great deal.

His family was been less forgiving of his wife's Out of Province origins, but she bore their enmity graciously, respected their traditions and when she finally gave birth to a healthy boy child on Furyan soil following Furyan customs, even her past was forgiven her.

The celebration was - for his family - lavish considering the child was not even considered a citizen of Furya yet. It was not being born on Furyan soil that made one Furyan, but with Hanan's family... with Hanan's _father_ it was another story.

Within days of the child's birth his father had called for the _Quatinell _Ceremony passing on the name Aarron to the firstborn son of his firstborn son. The rest might have to wait for _legal_ sanction, but so far as Hanan's father was concerned Aarron, son of Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid of Caden Province had been born. For Hanan it was a God blessed miracle and nothing... nothing beyond discovering his Savior's endless love and taking Charis for his own... had given Hanan greater pleasure than standing before his kith and kin in the family sanctuary, placing his precious son in the elder Aarron's arms and hearing his father say the ancient words of _Quatinell_. With that had begun a week of feasting and rejoicing, but oddly, a few days after the ceremony, Hanan caught Charis sheepishly preoccupied with packing a travel bag for Aarron "just in case we need to go somewhere."

"We are not scheduled to leave for another two and a half months. Where would we need to go?" he had asked curiously.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I suppose it's just something to keep my hands busy while I pray. We have so much to be thankful for. It's just that I feel... restless." She had looked over her shoulder at the night sky through the window and shrugged again before looking back to the bag. "Maybe it's that mothering instinct we keep hearing about kicking in. And I certainly can't redecorate your mother's house," she laughed good naturedly at her foolishness. "This just seemed to need doing." She picked up Aarron's travel ID and tucked it away in the bag.

That was something else she had felt pressed to do the day after the _Quatinell _Ceremony. She had no real discernable reason for doing any of the things she'd done when she'd done them except that it needed to be done and she had felt the sooner they got it out of the way the better. In the case of Aarron's travel ident there really was no rush. It had only taken a day to have it filled out and they wouldn't need it until they 'left the province'... but she had wanted it sooner.

Aarron's travel ident was like hers, marking him as Out of Province as well - an ambiguous phrase that could have more than one meaning in the Furyan culture depending on how and who used it. In the case of travel IDs, its true meaning was neither Charis nor Aarron were Furyan. Charis would have been irritated about it seven years ago, but now she understood a great deal more. It took more than being born on Furyan soil... or even being sired by a Furyan father... to make a person Furyan. Charis could have lived on Furya all her life, learned every obscure custom, married him and even convert to their faith, but - barring a miracle - she would still die Out of Province'. Her soul was not Furyan... she could not join the _Kol'adam. _

Likewise, until young Aarron came of age and proved he was one of the _Whole_, Aarron could not be Furyan either. There was no such thing as a naturalized Furyan, or even a half Furyan. You were all or you were not. When he came of age, if Aarron failed to join the _Kol'adam,_ he would always be Out of Province. If he joined the _Whole_ he would be wholly Furyan and the promises made in the ceremonies they had just gone through would become real making him, in truth, Aarron, son of Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid of Caden Province of Furya. Until then all his paperwork marked him as Out of Province and Hanan was merely his Furyan sponsor. In fact, with the exception of Aarron's medical records, Hanan wasn't even directly acknowledged as his father. As the child of an Out of Province' mother who had no _real_ Furyan province to call her own, Aarron would have no legal ties to Furya at all. That was just the way of things, but Hanan was confident it would change in time. He could not imagine God opening so many doors... bringing him back, softening his family's heart toward Charis, moving his father to accept _Quatinell_... only to fall short of giving Hanan a Furyan son.

He had _so_ much to be thankful for... so why was he the one feeling restless tonight? Was it that the week of rejoicing was over? As enjoyable as it had been, he really didn't think he would miss it. If anything it had given him less time with his new son which was the last thing he wanted... So why was he out here instead of in the house with them?

He paced the balcony and then finally turned and made his way back to Charis. She slept in the large bed they shared, an arm wrapped protectively around little Aarron next to her. Hanan lifted the covers and slipped between them trying not to disturb either occupant, but as he did Charis stirred.

"Can't sleep, Han?" she murmured sleepily.

"I'm fine. Just enjoying the view from the balcony. It's still hard to believe I'm home. If it weren't for that strange comet, I could almost convince myself I'd never left."

Charis smiled softly. "Except before you left, you didn't have a son."

_A son! I have a son... Aarron, son of Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid of Caden Province by my father's giving. _It was still almost more than he could were predicting the comet was going to be at its closest tonight - an incredibly near miss by astrological standards. Hanan had even been invited by some old co-workers to join them for a rooftop gathering to watch it pass, but a cold ball of space ice - however spectacular - didn't have nearly the same draw as a nice warm bed with his wife and son. _...my son._

Hanan snuggled in close reaching over the babe to encircle them both with his arm. "Except before I left I didn't have a wife. You... your Jesus. He's given me everything... wife, son, my family back."

"Your Jesus, too, now," she corrected sweetly.

"Yes, but you brought Him to me and for that I'll always be grateful."

Charis was silent a moment and then asked hesitantly, "What if you lost it all, Han? What if you lost Aarron... me... your father... everything? Would you still love Jesus then?"

That question shook Hanan to his core... resonated with something he could not identify. "I... I don't know. I think I would, but... I can't say for certain. I'm not sure I _can_ know unless I go through it. Why? Do you feel like something's going to happen?"

To his relief Charis shook her head. "No. It's just I... I was reading my Bible today. I intended to read some Proverbs but found myself in Job¤ instead. I can't help but wonder if _my_ faith could withstand that test. Could I lose everything... everyone...and still love God?" Her voice trailed off.  
¤ (pronounced jobe)

"What we have been given is not limited to what we _have_," Haran answered. "It was you who taught me that. Have you forgotten?"

"No, it's just that what I have means so much more to me now." Her gaze shifted to the baby lying between them then looked back to him. Her eyes embraced him with such love that it was as sensual as a caress.

She might be 'out of province', but he _felt_ her love regardless. She _made_ him feel it in her glances, in her touches, in the little things she did, in the sacrifices she made for him, and he tried to return the same. Theirs was not an idle love. They pursued it, planned it, put effort into it. When the ephemeral emotions of infatuated adoration that first drew them to marry began to fade under the onslaught of reality, they had already begun to build something much stronger, much longer lasting, and they knew well they would continue to build on it. "True love" was not something you just found and kept forever. It was a head start toward something so much better. And, there was someone else who loved Charis... who had loved her enough to die for her.

"Does what you have mean more to you than Jesus?" Hanan asked. "More than His peace and forgiveness? More than His mercy and grace? More than His promise of eternal life?" He already knew the answer in Charis's heart... _she_ had taught it to _him_. "Don't forget, if you were to lose me... were to lose little Aarron," he reached up to stroke the child's tiny cheek, "you _would_ see us again."

"Oh, Han," she pulled herself closer. "I pray I _never_ lose you... either of you, but thank you for reminding me."

"Let not your heart be troubled," Hanan smiled. "Isn't that what Jesus said?(i)"

"Yes," she sighed, relaxing. "Yes, he did."

Hanan relaxed also, his wife and child within the circle of his arm but sleep did not come immediately. He listened as Charis's breathing evened out and found himself thanking God yet again for the blessings He had given him and praying for the strength to be faithful whatever the future might bring.

Hanan was not sure exactly when he fell asleep, but he knew full well when he began to dream.

He immediately knew where he was... being among the minority of Furyan's who would. A barren pocked and cracked ocher landscape spread out before him while a "short" distance away the darkness of the sky was filled with a gloriously beautiful dark shadowed orb. Veiled beneath shifting thicknesses of clouds, the vast ebon shapes of land masses contrasted with the paler shimmering gray of oceans. Hanan knew the image. Hanan was dreaming he stood upon Gesetria, the furthest Furyan moon, looking over his home planet shaded in the colors of night, but this did not have the sense of "image" to it. The colors and the depth and the details seemed so real... and he was not alone.

Beside him stood a presence that radiated light and power with such quiet intensity it should have had him cowering, and yet he was not. Hanan could not explain and dared not look, but he knew he stood in the presence of God. Because it was a dream - how could it be anything else - he did not necessarily think it odd that he should be standing comfortably with God on a landscape void of most everything, including atmosphere, but he was of a mind to wonder why? From the distance Furya looked beautiful as it quietly revolved on its odd axis, serene and peaceful in the star dusted black velvet of space. This vantage beyond the planet's atmosphere made the number of stars that could be seen far beyond countless, and Hanan marveled to think God had made them all and that He could call each by name. Only one portion of the spacescape seemed unusual, and as Hanan looked he recognized the pale comet that had been approaching.

A chill touched him that had nothing to do with space. From this angle it resembled a ghost grey prequine in battered battle array, its caparison streaming out behind like a ragged burial shroud. With dread Hanan watched as it neared the planet and the shape of the prequine dissolved into multiple points of light revealing a shape within. He watched in horror as the shape began to unfold and grow revealing a multi-faced demon, exquisite, terrifying and implacably evil; a dark shape that made the expanse of space pale by comparison as it unfurled great black wings blotting out the stars. The beast gave a roar, soundless in the expanse of space, then looked at God and grinned defiantly before it possessively plucked the sphere of Furya out of space and enfolded it within its wings... and as Hanan lost sight of his home world he _heard _the planet scream.

"Arise. Take your wife and child and flee." Hanan was suddenly aware of God's voice beside him, as loud as thunder, as soft as a whisper. "Take nothing which is not already prepared and flee to the ship I will provide you."

Hanan fell to his knees as he reached plaintively toward the vanished planet. "My people," he choked out. "My family... God, you must save them. Please."

"I give this warning to all. There are many who refuse to hear My voice. There are even more who will hear but will not heed. Those who hear and will obey, I will save. Go now, Hanan, son of My Grace, do not delay. Those who will, will. Those who will not, will not. Take your wife and child and go... NOW!"

One moment Hanan was on Gesetria, and the next he was in his bed sitting up, a cold sweat drenching his body. Beside him Charis was wide awake and staring at him, her eyes full of fear. _I give this warning to all. _

"Han?" she whimpered, as if begging him to tell her it was just her imagination, but he could not.

"Get the baby," Hanan ordered as he flung the covers aside and pulled on his pants. "I have to warn my father."

"But God said..." Charis started, then saw the agony on her husband's face.

"Get the baby," he repeated. "I _have _to warn my father."

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**-oOo-**

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**WRITER'S THANKS, NOTES & NEWS:**

**THANKS:**

**Legolas0 -** Greetings! Thank you so much for the kind comments and the support! Also for the strong encouragement to continue to share the Truth. It is good to know it is appreciated. I truly apologize for the delay updating. This is the first in a series of 4 stories I'm working on and they are all going abysmally slow, but I will - in time - complete them all... including this one, I promise (and God willing)!

**Anna's pastime -** Hi again! I am so glad you got to read Chap 5. Thank you for ALL the kind words. I always love your reviews because you let me know what you like (and don't like :o). I have to say, coming up with something to make the handprints meaningful was a challenge because I could find nothing in my research to guide me, so its imaginative, but does it work :o) Thank you so much for all you've said (and hope you will say in the future :oD)

**Fatal Errors -** Thank you for the praise. It is great encouragement. It is especially high praise to hear my stories are worth your time because considering the length of some, especially Chances, that is no small investment - LOL. I appreciate you comments about the flow and how the characters have depth because that helps me know I'm accomplishing what I set out to do. Its not only gratifying :o) it's helpful, and I promise, I'll have every intention to keep writing!

**KrisEleven - **Thank you! I really had to think for a long time about the handprint. There was nothing in my research that even hinted at what it was and yet it was so significant. I really appreciate that you think it works.  
As to Riddick's eyes - LOL - yes, he achieves his through surgery... or was it by Shirah in Butcher Bay (the game)? It depends on who you ask. I've tried to do my research so I could keep my canon facts are as accurate as possible. Imagine my incredible frustration when official sources provided not one, but two separate irreconcilable origins for Riddick's vision. If you've never played the game your likely to disregard that origin, after all the surgery at Ursa Luna is backed up by at least 4 sources (movie, promo movie, website, web game), and yet if you go to the Riddick Wikis, its been dumped in favor of the "more recent" supernatural gift origin given in the game (the one and ONLY source for this origin) - GRRR. What you have in MyCoR: Grace is step one of my attempt to somehow reconcile the two origins although it is not completely possible. The doctor mentioned in the story becomes the one Riddick will encounter later in Ursa Luna and "Cutter's" intimate knowledge of Furyan vision allows for a less risky bio-shortcut that will tie in later to the supernatural Butcher Bay origin to complete the process (I HATE it when the official sources mess up their own canon! What's a poor fic writer to do? SIGH :o)  
Thank you also for noting the irony of the knives - LOL - The knife in Irgun's back was another item in the movie that seemed it should have more significance than it was given and I thought long and hard on how to use it. Its fun when someone picks up on it - GRIN.

**RozzandMaya -** Thank you! Thank you! I'm so glad you liked it. I hope you've like this one too although it's jumped to a completely different pace. Thanks for the comments re: the rating. We'll see when I get the next chapter done. It's the one I'm worried about. Thanks again. Hope to hear from you soon :o)

**NOTES:**

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**MY CONTINUING PROMISE:**  
As much as I hate it when other writers get 'distracted' by other stories and don't update the one **I'm** reading as fast as I'd enjoy, I have discovered that there are times other stories insist on being written. The result? I have four stories currently 'in progress' for your perusal – as they are all of a 'back story' nature in Riddick's timeline they would occur thusly: Saved by Grace, Be Still: Chances, Turn About and Nigh Unto Christmas.  
The good news is that each story has been generally plotted and outlined, and only ("only" LOL) needs to be fleshed out. The bad? That takes time, especially when divided between 4 stories, 3 kids, (2 six and under), 1 husband and the life that contains them all and more, so writing time comes at a premium. What it means for my readers is that updates to this story may be intermittent. I do, however, **promise** it won't be abandoned barring death or other equally drastic life change. Updates will come, please be patient, (and, of course, be aware that **feedback** is an incredibly** powerful motivator ;o) but until then, may God bless you all the time in-between.**

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**CARE TO LOOK THEM UP? Here's the Bible references used in this chapter:**

**(1)** John 14:1


	7. Chapter 7: Lost & Foundling

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**RATING NOTE:** OK, this is the one I've been worrying about. By comparison to some of the other stories I've read, I think this story may still fit under the general perception of a "T" rating, but at least one scene in this next chapter is disturbing, at least I felt that way writing it. Maybe it won't hit everyone else the same way it hit me, but reality reared its ugly head a while back - in this case one of the many Palestinian attacks on Israel - and being a mother it kind of gut punched me. In my story the incident is no longer the result of a suicide bomber and I don't go into the detail the news article did, but I still found the thought of it disturbing. War is not pretty. The attack on Furya has an agenda that makes it even worse. If anyone thinks the rating of the whole story needs to be altered because of this chapter, send me a message through my profile. This should be the only chapter with a "heads up."

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**A◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●◊†◊●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊●●●●●◊Ω**

**Chapter 7**

**Lost & Foundling**

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Neither of Hanan's parents would listen. They refused to heed the warning of God in spite of their son's heartfelt pleas.

"When you left Furya to follow this Out-of-Province woman and her _nokriy_ god, I feared I had lost you forever, but tonight, when your God spoke to me, I knew Him," his father told Hanan. "You keep my Aarron safe until he can come back to join the _Whole_... until he can claim what's his, but me... mine... we fight for what is ours now! Your God knows we will do this, but your home is no longer here. You get your wife... my grandson... you get them out of here to wherever this God of yours said to go. The people of Furya have never been conquered! While even one Furyan remains to fight, it has not been done!"

No amount of pleading would change his parents' minds, nor that of his sister, so in the end it was none but Charis and little Aarron accompanying Hanan through the streets.

Nor were the streets empty. People were stirring, filing into the lanes to stare up into the night sky, but few were heading in the direction of the spaceport or any other direction that might offer safety. Confusion and agitation was a swelling force in the _Kol'adam_, and even Charis was aware of it... she could read it in the faces and in the number of hands that held weapons though they knew not who they were bearing them against. They had all felt the threat of the dream, but few knew where to direct the fright and fury it stirred. It was also evident to Hanan and Charis that their delay had cost them.

Had they obeyed when first warned, they might have been able to take a vehicle... might have made it into the merchant district before others filtered into the streets, but now they both understood, innately, they were better off afoot. They carried little enough to weigh them down. Charis carried only the child, who seemed to have escaped the terror of the dream and slept quietly in his mother's arms despite the activity. Hanan had Aarron's travel bag across his back and his _Kol'dayan_ - the sword his father had given him when he received his handprint - at his side leaving his hands free.

The _Kol'dayan_ was more often used in ceremonies and carried at formal functions. Each was unique, echoing elements of the Heart & Wrath, serving its bearer as a personal reminder of a Furyan warrior's qualities, and each was keen of edge and forged strong and functional, but _Kol'dayan_s were sacred... sworn to the service of the Alpha and the defense of the _Whole_, often one in the same. For daily use each Furyan carried a smaller Honor Blade that might be as short as their forearm or as long as a full sword depending on their status and need. But, every Furyan could wield their _Kol'dayan_ with passing skill, and many could wield it with more than that for it was a duty every Furyan was prepared to fulfill.

But Hanan had left Furya... had suffered the disgrace of relinquishing his sacred blade back to his father, for he would be unable to defend the _Whole_ from his new "Province". He had presumed his father had it shattered to mark Hanan's choice to separate from kith, kin and people, but tonight, as Hanan and Charis fled the halls of the House of Arron, son of Javid, son of Methus, son of Javid of Caden Province having failed to convince a single family member to flee with them, the Elder Aarron had met them at the door. He had pressed Hanan's _Kol'dayan_ into his son's hand.

"Get home. Join the fight if you must... but save my line and name," his father pronounced as he clasp Hanan's shoulder. The eyes of the father locked with those of the son, the intimacy and their nearness sharing emotions through the _Kol'adam_ that had no words. Then Aarron sent Hanan away.

For once, Charis was glad she could not share the closeness of the _Whole People._ She had come to realize they felt their passions strongly, and she could not imagine they would feel their partings any less. She did not know if she could bear the pain her husband was being forced to endure.

Once outside the house they fled, dodging startled street gazers. Above them, high in the atmosphere, the comet was beginning to separate into a dozen individual points of brightness, each trailing ragged veils of white through the night sky. Hanan wanted to scream at them all to run, but he knew with poignant bitterness it would do no good. _"Those who will, will. Those who will not, will not." _God had warned him. At least he had gotten to say good-bye... but at what cost?

They ran trying to make up for lost time as the ground-based military positions opened up sending lances of light into the night sky. They hadn't made it more than a few blocks when Hanan picked up a low roar high overhead. It only pushed him to move them faster, but as the roar grew... as awe and panic began to replace confusion in the collective sense of the _Kol'adam_ Hanan found it impossible not to look.

Lancing through the night sky toward the city was a monstrous object crafted of polished metal. Its shape was almost that of a long mace, its heavy head pushing it down through the darkness, but what would have been the handle - the lower third of its length - narrowed to a vicious conical point that glowed angrily from the friction of cutting through the atmosphere. The lines of the thing were deep and vertical, its design made to pierce the air... and then the ground... but it was not designed solely as a weapon. This thing was art... horrifying, glorious, incredulous art... a tribute to noble death.

Above the conical shaft the thing widened and flattened, taking on a triangular shape. The flattened surfaces appeared to be inset with strips of interlocking shapes reminiscent of chain mail while the deep grooving and ridges that separated the strips and stabilized the thing's descent took on the semblance of robes for each of three massive funeral masks that topped the structure. Each mask looked in a different direction and each wore the likeness of a man's stern dead-eyed visage framed by an open faced helm and long straight locks of hair. The work was so exquisite and detailed that had Hanan known the man facing them he could have put a name to the mask, and the twisted irony of it was stunning... that the first instrument of attack on his people should come in a form so elegant and macabre... and almost familiar. Charis clutched his arm, and he knew she saw it as well... the similarity of the faces that topped the massive plummeting monolith to those worn by the multi-faced demon from the dream were terrifying.

"Han!" Charis cried.

"I know," Hanan answered raggedly, and he searched for shelter they could reach as he plotted the thing's trajectory. Hanan's eyes leapt to the location he anticipated and found his gaze on a familiar forest... screening a familiar plateau... upon which rested familiar moon kissed buildings. "The palace!" Hanan gasped. "It's going to hit the palace!"

And, it did.

They took shelter together in the arched stone alcove of the building beside them and "God, help us!" was the only prayer they could muster as their world shook. In a single moment the palace and the pristine clarity of the night were both lost one into the other. Hanan _felt_ the wrenching anguish of those watching as the distant fear, pain and rage of those in the palace pierced the _Kol'adam_ then abruptly ended. The monolith's impact sent out a roiling wave of destruction that exploded over the edge of the plateau, shattering the trees of the ancient royal forest like they were glass before leaping the river and roaring down onto the city. Gale force winds shattered windows and turned debris picked up in the forest canopy and the streets into deadly projectiles as shock waves through the bedrock shook foundations. Charis wrapped herself around her husband and clung to him, anchoring him through the onslaught the only way she could - through her touch - as the shock, fear, panic and pain she knew were exploding through the _Kol'adam_ hit him like a physical blow. And beyond... in the streets... she could hear screams and shouting.

It was over within moments, and they emerged into a wholly different world. Hanan put his hand to his nose as Charis coughed, and he was glad his gentle wife's senses were not as acute as his own. The sweet night air was now filled with new smells... cracked wood, ripped foliage, old dust, new fear... and blood. The artillery was dark and silent, but the twin moons provided enough light for even Charis to see the change. A pall of dust hung in the air, and everywhere they looked there was damage and people and even bodies... And towering over the city - as a child might tower over a small animal it was preparing to torment - was the tri-faced monolith, coldly indifferent to the harm it had caused. Hanan could _feel_ the numbed shock in the _Kol'adam, _but underlying that was a collective soul deep rage that was growing with each beat of each remaining Furyan heart.

But Hanan knew this was not the end of the attack. It had only just begun!

He heard it first... a discordant whine from the air above the plateau that grew as the insets began to light up behind the interlocking 'chain mail' shapes. The glow climbed, lighting the layers of links, and suddenly they began separate from one another and from the monolith. The shapes plummeted and then arced up and began to spread into the air over the city... FIGHTERS! It was like stirring a nest of bees. The alien fighters swarmed from the sides of the monolith filling the air with motion... nor were they alone. Other ships, huge and ponderous, were dropping out of the atmosphere and starting to pummel the city with bursts of white energy, but they were not doing so unopposed.

Darting among the alien craft were sleek Furyan fighters. Bright explosions blossomed above the city as the Furyan air defenses struck back and Hanan was jolted from his shock as an alien fighter spiraled from the sky trailing fire and smashed into a building a few blocks away. On its heels a Furyan fighter streaked down the street and shot upwards to engage a new target. Their numbers were fewer, but the rage in the _Kol'adam_ was growing fast.

Hanan gripped the hilt of his _Kol'dayan_, the adrenalin rushing through his veins heightening his perception of the _Kol'adam's_ increasing fury - never before had Hanan felt such a powerful cohesive emotion within the _Kol'adam_, and in that moment the history he had studied so thoroughly as he trained to become one of the OWMS became real. He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill these invaders! _This_ was why they were called _Fury_-ans!

He jerked himself away from the scene. No! He did not follow that path any longer... and he had greater responsibilities! He turned to find Charis staring at him, her eyes wide and frightened as she clutched Aarron to her chest. They _had_ to reach the spaceport... and quickly! "Come," he commanded, and they ran.

The wind, the shockwaves, and bombardment by monstrous death hallowed ships left their destructive mark on the city streets. It was no longer a straight shot to the spaceport. The streets were filled with debris, damaged buildings, toppled buildings, bodies and scrambling people. And, it was no longer safe. The alien fighters strafed the streets and while their telltale whine announced them to those that kept their wits and their senses about them, Furya's attackers had employed the next stage of their destructive assault. A new breed of ship cruised over the buildings, their undersides glowing with eerie blue fire, and wherever they paused was suddenly filled with the sound of marching feet. The _Kol'dayan_ and other personal weapons the Furyan's carried now had targets!

Hanan and Charis knew their only hope, the only hope they truly ever had, was to reach the spaceport as quickly as they could... and pray their delay had not cost them _everything_. They prayed for protection as they went and when a street was blocked, they paused asking the Lord to lead, and then took the direction that felt best praying they had chosen wisely. There was no time for second guessing. Thus, it was they traveled... running when they could, pausing only long enough to choose when they needed to change direction.

Suddenly, as they skirted a partially collapsed building still crackling with flames, they found themselves amidst a battleground... and amongst its victors. There were many bodies strewn helter-skelter among the pieces of debris... Furyans in casual clothes, comet watchers perhaps, armed with Honor Blades that would never again be wielded by Furyan hands, and many bodies in full suits of dark armor that echoed the monolith's deep vertical lines. The invader's weapons were heavy axes more closely resembling ornate long handled picks, but they were deadly nonetheless.

_Hand to hand, armor to cloth,_ Hanan thought briefly. Considering the disadvantage, the Furyans had given a good account of themselves, but three armored figures remained. Hot anger toward these cowardly scum that would first do their killing of civilians from the air and then on the streets with such unfair advantage - both his own and that which raged in the _Kol'adam_ - caused him to hesitate... to rashly consider showing these three _harag_ what the fury of one more Furyan would do, but his love for Charis and Aarron burned hotter.

"You there, stop!" one of them called as Hanan and Charis tried to duck back. They would have run trusting their lack of armor to give them the advantage, but as Hanan turned another sound reached his ears... more feet, marching in unison, the sound undistorted by corners or walls. More troops beyond the pall of dust and smoke!

"More coming this way," he growled in a low voice. "We'll have to run the gauntlet. When I say go, you run! Make for the spaceport. I'll catch up!" _If only we had obeyed more quickly_, he found himself thinking briefly. Then he grimly drew both his _Kol'dayan_ and Honor Blade.

"But, Han...," Charis protested, but she had no time to finish as her husband turned and stepped up to meet the advancing invaders.

"Why are you doing this?" he shouted. "For what reason does Furya deserve this merciless attack?"

"We need no reason, breeder!" one of the attackers snarled.

"We do as our Lord Marshal commands," another added as he hefted his axe in anticipation.

"Loyalty til Underverse come," the last announced taking his place beside his brothers.

Hanan shifted left, trying to draw them to one side and create an opening for Charis to dash through, and it appeared to work. As they shifted with him, he shouted "GO!" and launched himself into the middle of them hoping to engage them all so his wife and child could slip by unopposed. It had been many years since he seriously engaged an opponent, but he had grown up with blades in his hand and his _Kol'dayan_ was made for him to wield. He knew its weight, its balance, its reach, and it settled in his hand as if it had never been parted from him. The OWMS was not a warrior's occupation, but there was not a single individual on Furya who had not received training as such... it was the means to learning discipline and control, of developing a strong body and a quick mind. Hanan ducked under the first's attack, managed to block the second and flowed into a strike of his own. His _Kol'dayan_, forged of Furyan stuffs, bit into the alien armor, leaving a deep gouge in the surface. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charis dart for the opening and moved to force another attack. And, a moment later he heard his wife scream.

His ruse had failed. The third had turned back to meet Charis!

Never before had he felt what raged in the _Kol'adam_ - the vengeful, wild, angry, torrent of violent, uncontrolled fury - but he had been trained since birth to control his emotions in preparation for the day he joined the _Whole People_... trained so that he would be joined with, not controlled by the intense passions that the _Kol'adam_ could expose him to. The clash of blade on blade, the jolting impact of the deadly blow blocked, the rush of blood and adrenaline that surged through his veins as he entered combat only heightened those furious passions that made his heart pound, but still he clung to control. It was ingrained! Anger unrestrained pushed reason off the mark... but when his wife screamed, the utter panic, the overwhelming terror, the instantaneous need to meet her danger, to protect what he held most dear challenged his control and found it lacking.

Hanan had never before crossed the line into a Rage. Those who did were considered weak minded, and such was the destructive fury of Rages that they were even punishable by death - a judgment often required at the time of apprehension for the safety of all - for Furyan Rages were mindless. Furyan Rages were relentless. Furyan Rages were deadly. But with that scream... in that instant... "Charis!" he roared, and the unrestrained wrath of an entire people under siege pushed him over.

Asked to recall the battle after that, Hanan could not. His memory of it flashed in his mind like brief frozen images caught in a red strobe light. His _Kol'dayan_ embedded in the weaker, more flexible mail in the first attacker's neck... a parry... a dodge... his shorter Honor Blade jutting from the open portion of the second attacker's face plate... the third attacker pursuing Charis, empty armed, over the rubble... the third attacker charging toward him... pinned to the ground with his attacker atop him... his _Kol'dayan_ shattered by the heavy axe, less that a hand's length of blade left on the hilt in his hand... that stub of a blade protruding from his attacker's side...

The last image of the battle to register in Hanan's mind was that of himself pinning his attacker. The man's helm was missing, and his expression was one of fear and shock as Hanan held a shattered mortar stone overhead. Hanan had no memory of repeatedly bringing that mortar stone down on his attacker's face, anymore than he had a memory of any of his attacker's clipping his arm, but the evidence of both were plain in the crimson mess. The blood from his arm ran freely down to mingle with that of the unrecognizable mass of flesh and bone beneath his stone, and Hanan could only stare as his senses returned to him.

"Oh, God, forgive me," he whispered looking at what he had done, and as he raised his shaking bloody hands before him he could only plead again, "Forgive me."

The shock of what he had done impacted him on so many levels... the morals of his race, the doctrines of his faith, the stunning realization of what he had, however briefly, become. He could only stare, but there was another part of him - the instinctive inborn warrior - that remained aware of the greater whole... that was aware of all going on around him... aware of the soft high keening behind him... aware of feet in the distance coming closer... and it brutally forced that awareness on his mind snapping him back to where they were and why.

Hanan's heart wrenched as he franticly searched for his wife and son, the moments before suddenly impacting on him as he saw Charis kneeling in the rubble clutching Aarron to her chest as she rocked forward and back weeping.

"I can't find his head," she wailed as Hanan turned.

He felt sick, violently ill, savaged, abandoned, helpless, and he wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees beside her and join her keening, but the marching footsteps were coming closer. There was no time. Unable to deal with the intensity of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, part of his brain shut down leaving the warrior in control... that part that would seek to survive. He would deal with his emotions later... _if_ they escaped.

Grabbing Charis' arm he yanked her to her feet and began hauling her roughly toward a narrow alley.

"We have to get out of here!"

She stumbled and he heard her exclaim as a soft sodden thud hit the pavement, but he didn't stop, not even when his wife suddenly jerked against his arm. A glance back showed him Charis had dropped the baby's body when she stumbled, and only his grip on her arm prevented her from going back to recover it.

"Aarron!" she screamed reaching back as Hanan pulled her further away from their son.

"...Is with God now!" he shouted back at her as he mercilessly continued to drag her away. "As we will be if we stay here!" His heart cried, his emotions threatened to wake, and he turned back to her again. "Charis," he pled. "Please! We have to leave!" She heard his pain as much as his words, and with a final despairing look back at the small, too short form lying in the street, she turned and began to run beside him.

The main roads, though more likely to be navigable, had proven themselves more dangerous, so Hanan and Charis began seeking alleys when they could. When the impossibility of passage forced them onto a main road again, they would choose cautiously, actively seeking to dodge troops. Sometimes it was the sound of marching feet that warned them off a street; other times it was screams and fighting or weapons' fire. They were seeing more bodies, and more often than not they were Furyan. Furya was making the invaders pay for their audacity, but Furya was losing just as God had predicted. Charis was trying very hard not to see the bodies. There were too many, and too many who died far too young. Her own loss was too near the surface. It didn't matter that these weren't her people for Christ saw no distinction... not between male or female, not between free or slaved, not between Jew, Greek or Furyan(1). He loved all of His creation, and she knew He was trying to save as many as he could... as many as would listen, but people always had the ability to choose.

She tried so hard not to look at the bodies. These were the kind of horrors that could scar a mind for life, and she prayed... prayed fervently... that Jesus would see them through. The warrior in Hanan wanted to seek out the fighting, but his Kol'dayan was shattered, his Honor Blade was little more than a long dagger, and the thought of leading Charis into such danger and similarly leaving her lying in the street was sufficient to keep his feet aimed for the spaceport.

Their process seemed haphazard but they made steady progress until they found themselves forced onto a main street again and here it seemed their way was blocked on all sides. The street ahead was the victim of bombardment, the buildings collapsed across the road, and as they reached the side streets in-between they found rubble in either direction. "We'll have to backtrack... find another way," Charis despaired.

Hanan started to lead them back the way they'd come, and then he stopped and turned. Without a word he brushed past her to face the rubble filled side street.

"Han, it's blocked," Charis protested.

"No, it's not," he returned firmly intent on his path, and as he said it Charis knew with sudden surety that he was right.

They entered the side street cautiously and worked their way down. The path was difficult, but not impossible, and it was not blocked. No view, even one aerial would have revealed it. The multi storied buildings on either side had been struck from above causing their ends to collapse and fill the narrow street, but in doing so debris had funneled as it fell. Girders had crossed as walls folded. Hanan and Charis worked their way down and around where it appeared to dead end, but to the side - created by a massive beam along with several other shattered structures holding tons of debris aloft - was a tunnel into the _interior_ of the building. The walls groaned like an animal in pain, and the "entrance" led into utter darkness, but when Hanan reached back to take Charis's hand she caught the eerie silver glimmer that she had never quite gotten used to that told her he had dropped his lenses. She took his hand and let him lead her into the darkness trusting he would guide her safely just as she trusted her God to keep the building intact while they were in there.

They picked their way cautiously, hearing the great weight straining above them, and Hanan informed her it was a bedroom as he led her toward a thin pale light a short distance away. The light came from another crumbled section of wall leading into the narrow moonlit alley. Of the two perpendicular walls, only the corner remained and it was the sole structure bearing the load of what remained of the floors above them... if anything of them remained at all. The alleyway was blocked on either side, but another crumbled wall gave them access to the adjacent building. They paused hearing a single volley of weapon's fire and a animalistic scream cut short, but the closeness of the buildings only served to distort the direction and distance. It was near enough, however, for them to know they needed to be on their guard.

By the faint light filtering in through the gaping wall, Charis could make out the distinctive shapes of children's toys, but her vision quickly failed as Hanan led her further... and Hanan did not tell her what he saw in the darkness her 'out of Province" eyes could not penetrate. It shook him... threatened to tear loose his control - no more Aarron, son of Javid, son of Methus, son of Javid of Caden Province, no more Aarron, son of Hanan, son of Aarron, son of Javid of Caden Province. He had failed to protect his father's name, his father's line... Hanan took hold of his thoughts and refused to let them go further. He forced his mind to verses buried in his heart and prayed hard as he pushed on.

Hanan led Charis out the doorway of the child's bedroom and found the street-facing wall of the hall demolished. Moonlight again filtered down in the distance, and he led his wife toward it. He did not bother to consider the odds of the damaged structure forming another tunnel, of their finding a way through the wreckage of four buildings, let alone one that would not once require them to stoop or crawl - his God was beyond odds. A section of the roof had fallen intact aslant over the rubble that preceded it, sheltering the valley between two piles and creating a protected "path". Hanan and Charis made their way through it with continued caution ever aware of the jagged danger of shattered wood, broken glass and other hazards buried in the wreckage. They had suffered, but not so much as others had... as those who failed to heed God's warning at all would. Hanan and Charis could only credit God with their continued passage thus far, and it gave them hope that they were not too late.

Under the light of the twin moons overhead, Hanan was able to raise his lenses once again, and they warily picked their way around yet another pile of debris to find themselves on the other side of the block. Hanan looked back the way they'd come. Despite its size, here was little sign of the tunnel from this angle either and certainly no hint that there was safe passage through the rubble filled street beneath the crumbled buildings themselves. He thanked God, and they pushed on, albeit cautiously. They had been hoping for an alley passage, but it was another main street they traveled.

They were, perhaps, halfway when Hanan suddenly stopped dead causing Charis to bump into him. She started scanning franticly for hiding places even as she whispered, "What is it?"

"A prequine!" her husband answered harshly. "And a battle mount by the build of it, but what is it doing down here on the edge of the merchant district..."

There was no question the animal before them was no threat. Its great body was still, it's head canted back behind it at an unnatural angle that wouldn't let it lie flat, but neither was it a position live muscle would permit.

"...Unless an attack hit a stable in the upper district. Dear Lord, if there's a pack of them running loose in a mad panic..." Suddenly, he was also scanning... praying for a way of escape, but there were few places a man could go that a prequine could not follow, especially trained battle mounts.

Charis had seen prequines at a distance in reinforced paddocks and once all dressed in finery in a parade. That was enough to send chills down her back at the thought of a pack of them running loose. They were rarely kept by any but the nobility - none else could afford them - but there was something about the prone beast her husband had pointed out ahead that caught her attention. She stared trying to see through the dust and smoke that hung in the air, through the veil of mane hanging over the unnaturally canted head, and suddenly she realized what had caught her eye...

"No, Han, its wearing tack. It was ridden here!"

"So where's the rider?" Hanan asked as he reevaluated the scene before him. From where they stood the side street ahead of them looked clear... that might mean an accessible alleyway. The street behind the prequine was filled with a partially collapsed building, but what was its rider doing here? Had the rider heeded the dream and been trying to reach the spaceport? Had the rider survived the fall? He looked the way the animal's head was facing when it died... as if it were trying to look back... "Come on," he commanded, and Charis didn't question him.

They moved with the utmost care, not knowing what to expect or what had brought the animal down, and when they reached it Hanan paused briefly. The creature's chest and shoulder had been decimated by an energy weapon, but as he hesitantly lay his hand on its brindle neck to peer over its back Hanan noted it was clearly a noble's mount, but the rider had not been pinned by its fall. He also noted something else. "It's still warm as life. This happened very recently," Hanan said urgently as he scanned the wreckage, and recalling the weapon's fire and scream they had heard in the alley he was certain he knew exactly when. Where was the rider? Where were those that shot the prequine?

Shortly after they entered the break in the rubble Hanan paused and picked up a belt. The thing was ripped and useless, as was the pouch attached to it. A several pieces of bright metal fell from the torn leather and glinted in the gloom. Charis reached down for the coins. It was hard to see their color, but their shapes marked them - gold coins and platinum trade bars.

Hanan nodded. "Keep them."

Charis stuffed them in her pocket, and then both stiffened as a strangled scream pierced the air. Screams were not new in this hell they found themselves traversing, but this one was somewhere near... somewhere ahead. They glanced at each other, knowing their choices were narrowly defined. The rubble didn't make the alley ahead promising. The one opposite the prequine appeared, outwardly, to be clear. If they did not make it to a clear alleyway it meant main avenues until they _could_ find another narrow way, but the nearness of the scream meant a living soul close by, and Hanan and Charis could not leave without knowing if they could be helped. No word passed between them, but as Hanan continued to lead the way through the rubble, they were in complete agreement.

As they drew closer, they suddenly became aware of voices. Had the scream drawn other assistance... or was it due to the ministrations of the enemy? The ruins of the building were more a hindrance than any help. They scattered the sound, so Hanan couldn't identify specifically where the voices originated while providing a score of opportunities for them to make noise of their own Forewarned, they made their way through the wreckage with extreme caution. Climbing carefully up a low mound of rubble, Charis suddenly saw Hanan sink back down with a frantic wave of his hand. Charis stopped and then cautiously eased herself up beside her husband.

From there, between the twin moons and the fires still burning in the rubble, she could see nearly as well as her husband. The first thing she noted was they had finally reached the merchant district! On the other side of the mound was a store whose ornate borders of fruit and vines in the outward décor marked it as a ceremonial wine store.

It was rare that Furyan's imbibed in anything that might weaken their mental discipline or make them subject to the _Kol'adam_. When they did, it was well within toleration or, in the case of medicines, subject to careful supervision and control. Overindulgence simply wasn't allowed and was subject to extreme, sometimes even fatal, penalties. It wasn't just intolerance; it was necessity, for a Furyan not in control of themselves could be dangerous to all and to voluntarily put one self in such a state was inexcusable. It was only on special occasions and in rituals of import that special vintages of wine would be shared ceremonially in small quantities as a sign of honesty, alliance, treaty, or bonding depending on the reason for the gathering. Aarron's _Quatinell _Ceremony was one such occasion, and they had all shared in a dark wine made from a sweet clustering tree fruit. In moderation alcohol enhanced the emotional connection Furyan's felt with one another. In the case of _Quantinell,_ it served to celebrate and strengthen family ties.

Ties Hanan would no longer have... Charis tried to push that thought away only to have it buried in an avalanche of other thoughts as her elevation revealed more of the sight before them. The rubble thinned leaving the entrance to the alleyway clear, but directly in front stood a group of men in armor. Charis needed no warning. The armor was of the same vein as the three who had attacked them earlier. Charis reached out and caught Hanan's arm tightly at once frightened, and comforting. None of the soldiers looked in their direction but seemed focused on a ceremony or some such that must have just occurred as one soldier knelt before another, but almost immediately the man stood. The man he knelt before wore an ornate helmet with eerie faces looking in three ways besides his own and Charis's grip became painfully tight as she recognized them. These _were_ the faces from the dream! The man in the mask glanced at the rubble causing Hanan and Charis to duck back down. They heard his voice, cultured and pleased, as he expressed his satisfaction and commanded that a unit be called in to go through the wreckage, and then the whole troop moved off.

They watch them go around the corner back into the residential district, then Hanan clambered over the mound.

"They're gone, but who knows how long it will be before the troop he called for gets here," Hanan murmured. "Come on."

They ran for the alley and as they neared the sound of marching feet was heard again in the distance. The dark slash of the alley was forboding enough, but as they approached, Charis felt sense of dread. Something lay along their path just inside the alley... something partly obscured by an out of place trashcan... something that she knew she didn't want to see, but she had no choice. They had to go straight past it to enter the narrow passage. She tried to avert her eyes as she approached but in doing so tripped and found her gaze squarely where she wished it not to be.

A young woman lay crumpled upon a bench as if drunk or asleep, except that she was neither. Though Charis knew nothing of Furyan fashion,the woman's rich night clothes and expensive barbed riding boots marked her as being wealthy, very possibly nobility... and quite likely the rider of the fallen battle mount. Charis had to wonder how the woman found herself in the merchant district, particularly this end of it. Had she been heeding the dream? But God had indicated that those who obeyed He would save. It was their own failure to obey immediately had cost them... Charis refused to acknowledge what it cost them... this was not the place or time. Had this woman likewise failed to obey?

Charis could never know, but it was obvious the woman's coins would help her no longer. Her rich garments were split down the front and the pale skin beneath had been ripped asunder spilling bright blood everywhere. From this bloody cavity a thick gleaming cord draped up and over the edge of the trash can. Charis found her feet stopping against her will. She screamed to herself to keep running, to put the gruesome scene behind her, but some morbid compulsion drew her. Hanan called to her from in the shadows, his eyes reflecting silver in the pale light, confused by her delay, but it was as if his voice were a distant dream. Only the contents of the trashcan mattered. She HAD to see what had been done to child ripped from this woman's womb.

As Charis peered over the edge she saw him, fully formed but deathly still, a shadow within the shadow, made so by the blue of his still wetly gleaming skin. The umbilical cut a darker shadow beneath his chin as it encircled his tiny neck, and Charis choked back a sob at the cruelty of the act, for she knew the cord had been wrapped there intentionally.

_Why_, her heart cried to the heavens, _why are they killing the babies?_ But any answer she might have received was lost as her gaze was drawn to the cord as it hung over the edge of the can, the cord that moved ever so faintly... the cord was still pulsing! Maybe...

"Hanan," she shrieked, "help me!" and before he could even move she had thrust her hands into the trash can to lift the limp blue body from the refuse.

When he saw what she had retrieved, her husband offered his broad hands to support the fragile burden as she unwound the cord from the infant's neck. Almost as soon as the pressure was released, the baby gave a faint gasp and then a wheezing breath. Within moments the blue began to pale.

"Oh, praise the Lord," Charis whispered, and they marveled together how every shallow little breath that whistled through the infant's tortured throat brought new color to his skin.

"Does... he... live?" It was the frailest of voices, barely above that of leaves blown along pavement, but Hanan heard it. Shifting his eyes from the pinking infant Hanan looked over and met the eyes of the woman on the bench. They were glazed and wracked with pain, but they were aware and alive... barely.

"Yes, Lady," Hanan reassured her quickly. "He lives," and immediately moved to kneel beside the bench, tenderly offering the child. Charis followed.

"My little... warrior," the woman whispered, her hand struggling across the distance to lay upon the tiny chest. "You... are strong. Be called... Bedan," she christened him, then her hand fell, her strength gone, leaving the print of it upon him in blood. "Take him," she commanded in the faintest of voices.

"What can we do for you?" Charis agonized for the woman, but any hope she had that they could offer aid was stripped away as marching feet grew closer.

"Just save... my son," the woman answered, and Hanan was already acting.

Passing the child to Charis, he tied off the cord with a strip ripped from the mother's gown then cut the cord with his Honor Blade. The woman watched his work, as aware as they of the feet approaching, and no sooner was the cord tied and cut then she was ordering them, "Go... now... run... " and they obeyed, disappearing into the alley.

The woman listened to the couple carry her son into the darkness. She felt her life ebbing, but she had been given hope. Perhaps one son of Furya would survive. "Be safe,... my... warrior," she murmured as their footsteps faded into the distance. "...Avenge us,... my... brave one," and then the woman spoke no more.

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**-oOo-**

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**WRITER'S THANKS, NOTES & NEWS:**

**THANKS:**

**FreeSpiritSeeker - **Welcome to Saved By Grace :oD and thank you so much and thanks for the review. I hope you like this one as well :o).

**ElvishKiwis Venerated Ancestor (AKA Lady Eva :o) - **Welcome! It was so nice meeting you in the Assembly of Christian Writers forum. Thank you SO much for visiting me here! And thank you, thank you for the wonderful reviews and the compliments. I hope the info I sent you by PM after your first review filled you in a little bit. I have to say sometimes I'm surprised I've been drawn into the Riddick fandom because it is so dark and Riddick himself is such a dark character, but there are glimmers of light... The Riddick fandom is complicated for having had just 2.5 movies (there was an animated DVD-only movie in-between), but then what fandom isn't? If I didn't answer all your questions, do feel free to let me know (and there is a place on the web called FamilyMovieBuff that is liquidating its edited [language/ questionable material removed] movies for the next day or two if your interested - they might have the two theatrical movies there). As far as the story related ones, your musings were correct in regard to Zynda. Danger avoidance was his goal, but he _was_ going on more than instinct. I think the rest are addressed in this last chapter. Well, I have to say I got this update up in (for me) record time :o). Can't promise that in the future, but I couldn't leave you hanging too much... you might be real busy soon :o).

**NOTES:**

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**MY CONTINUING PROMISE:**  
As much as I hate it when other writers get 'distracted' by other stories and don't update the one **I'm** reading as fast as I'd enjoy, I have discovered that there are times other stories insist on being written. The result? I have four stories currently 'in progress' for your perusal – as they are all of a 'back story' nature in Riddick's timeline they would occur thusly: Saved by Grace, Be Still: Chances, Turn About and Nigh Unto Christmas.  
The good news is that each story has been generally plotted and outlined, and only ("only" LOL) needs to be fleshed out. The bad? That takes time, especially when divided between 4 stories, 3 kids, (2 six and under), 1 husband and the life that contains them all and more, so writing time comes at a premium. What it means for my readers is that updates to this story may be intermittent. I do, however, **promise** it won't be abandoned barring death or other equally drastic life change. Updates will come, please be patient, (and, of course, be aware that **feedback** is an incredibly powerful motivator ;o) but until then, may God bless you all the time in-between.

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**CARE TO LOOK THEM UP? Here's the Bible references used in this chapter:**

1 Galatians 3:28 and Colossians 3:11 - Okay, the verses don't include Furyans ;o), but read them. They clearly indicate that God doesn't see race or status... He only sees people and when you read John 3:16, there are no racial provisionals to being saved... whosoever (that's _ANY_body!) believes in Him... (Him is Jesus). Christ came to offer salvation to the world. It's our choice what we do with Him.


	8. Chapter 8: Something Worth Fighting For

(I created a lot of this, but not Riddick, as stated in COPYRIGHTS listed in chapter 1)

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**Chapter 8**

**Something Worth Fighting For**

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The merchant district had not escaped the aerial bombardment unscathed, but the evidences of lives lost in the violent attack were less obvious. And although aerial sweeps were still an issue, once in the merchant district the chance of encountering invading foot soldiers diminished... for the moment. Hanan and Charis huddled in a doorway out of sight catching their breath and as Hanan watched Charis cosseting the traumatized baby... _a_ baby... not _their_ baby... his heart clenched agonizingly. _Too soon,_ Hanan told his emotions, _too soon_, but after running so far the frightened stillness felt almost like peace and they spread through his limbs stealing his strength... replacing it with raw desolation. _Aarron! _He caught his breath and struggled to not start sobbing. "We'll never get out of here alive."

Hanan's heart wanted to break. He despaired, his faith faltering in the enormity of the chaos around them, but strengthened by her precious gift and a mother's instinctive passion Charis found hers renewed.

"Your name is Hanan," she answered solemnly. "In Furyan it may mean Merciful Warrior, but in ancient Hebrew it means Grace of God. Wasn't it you who was just reminding me that God loves us far beyond our worth. He is where our strength comes from. Every breath is a gift, and while we breathe He may yet work miracles in our lives. Courage, husband, if God would have us through, we _will_ get through... pray with me!"

She put her hand on her husband's shoulder and drew him to where she cradled the child closely against, tucked in the fold of her coat, her sharing the warmth of her body. Together they prayed, sheltering the infant between them. She felt Haran's shuddering breaths even out as she spoke and felt God give them both a measure of strength and courage they had not had before. Their loss was still there, and together they refused to even think about his family... his sister, his mother, his father. They would deal with all that later. They needed only to deal with NOW, and _now_ meant finding a way off the planet. _Now_ meant dealing with the child, naked and cold and surprisingly alive for one strangled with its own umbilical and thrown in the trash. It was then as they finished their prayer that Charis realized she was feeling a strap beneath her fingers. The strap to... "Bless you, Han, you kept Aarron's..." Her voice caught, then she continued more softly. "You kept Aarron's bag," and Hanan suddenly realized he still had the battered travel bag strapped across back.

From Aarron's battered travel bag they pulled a dryper and a sleeper, and both wept quietly. They cleaned the foundling with their tears, dressed him in their son's clothes, then swaddled him in one of Aarron's blankets. In the darkness of the shattered doorway Charis nursed the child on the mother's milk God had provided for Aarron, then finally they rigged a sling to carry the baby under Charis' coat, snug against her warm chest even as it freed her hands to run. Even dressed and bundled in Aarron's clothes, there was no question to Charis and Hanan's knowing eyes that this baby was not their son, but Aarron had been young enough. Few others would be able to tell the difference without a DNA scan. They would have to trust God to take care of things if it came to that.

"Bedan," Hanan said thoughtfully. "It's a name reserved for royalty, the name of an avenging king."

"His mother looked high born," Charis commented as she snugged the blanket, "Do you suppose..." She let it trail off as she remembered the woman and how she died and shuddered. No one should die that way.

"Rightfully given or the fancy of a dying mother..." Hanan answered looking at the destruction around them, "It doesn't matter. Let him keep it for the middle, but he can't be that, he can't be Furyan. Not anymore."

Charis nodded. "Then what?"

Hanan touched the little cheek, resolve on his face. "Until we get home he has to be Aarron, then..." He glanced at Charis. "...then we can figure out who he is... who _we_ are." The thought brought a faint smile of hope to Charis's lips. Their son was dead, but perhaps the dream of a family had not died with him. It was something worth fighting for.

Then they ran. They ran as they had never run before. They ran until Charis's limbs felt made of lead and her breath burned in her throat. They ran until she couldn't take another step and Hanan would have to seek some bit of shelter for her to collapse in. There they would pray, and she would find her strength and their direction renewed... sometimes literally. More than once they shifted streets at some unfathomable sense of foreboding only to hear the sounds of boots on the one they had just left.

The final approach to the spaceport was a fearful sprint across near open land... broken field running with the little cover. They made it, though Hanan was supporting Charis... nearly carrying her... the final 50 meters. She crouched by the fence as Hanan went to scout, and when he came back to report he had found a hole in the security, she was somehow ready to start moving again.

But it wasn't just a hole... it was a breach, and after she picked her way over the wreckage of the once sturdy barrier and paused to scan the spaceport grounds, she saw it was not alone. The proud complex had been devastated. There was no movement to be seen save for bright leaping flames and columns of wafting smoke rising wraith-like in the moonlight. Every visible craft had been reduced to smoking ruin, and most of the buildings had been collapsed all or in part by the heavy blasts of the sarcophagus ships. Even the runways still smoked faintly in the moonlight pocked by massive craters. While the airport evidently no longer warranted the attackers' immediate attention, they had ensured nothing would use the air center to fly again.

"Oh, Han," Charis clutched at him. "Are we too late?"

"I don't know," he answered grimly. "We won't know until we reach the commercial side." So they ran again, ran until they could find shelter in ruins that had, just a short time ago, been part of a thriving planetary infrastructure. From there Hanan had to pick their way with care. The remains of the once massive structures drowned them in a sea of smoke, shadow and hazard, so it was, with lenses dropped, that Hanan lead the way through the debris field. Somewhere amid the devastation was the ship God had provided for their escape... _if_... if only their delay had not cost them everything.

Hanan prayed constantly. Prayers were on his lips when the terrain allowed it, in his heart when it did not. It was not easy. Acrid smoke burned their eyes as some of the chemicals in the smoke threatened to burn their lungs, but somehow, before a place could become untenable, a cool breeze would clear the path and sometimes even reveal a path... They would be surrounded by destruction, smoke as thick as shirt cloth with no visible way left, and a breeze would cut through the opacity showing an egress. Hanan would blink watering eyes, and then pull Charis after him with a mutter of thanks.

It was in that manner that Hanan found their way to the remains of a huge gray hanger. Half the building had been destroyed. The remainder of the building stood, through with dubious stability... and Hanan felt drawn to it. They worked their way around to the far side, amazed to find that part relatively whole and accessible by a single door slightly ajar.

Hanan and Charis both peered cautiously through the hole where there had once been a window in the heavy metal door. The interior was dark, save for faint shafts of moonlight streaming through the cracked and shattered roof. In that faint light even Charis could catch the gleam of a ship's metallic hull and a pale patch of yellow light in the distance.

Hanan saw much more. The fallen roof hung from twisted and broken girders cocked slantwise between the remaining roof and ground, and had it fallen in any other manner, it would have crushed the ship beneath it... a ship that was large enough for cargo but built for speed, and it was armed. The design was clearly Out of Province - in the furthest sense of the phrase - and everything about the ship screamed defense, or perhaps even smuggler… and the ship was intact. The thought was overwhelming. Perhaps they weren't too late! Then Hanan caught movement and he realized the gangplank was down. There was a man standing at the base in the little rectangle of light.

"We've found it," Hanan breathed in relief, and pushed the door open. The door swung with a faint shriek, and the guard had his weapon trained on them instantly.

"_Pathach_!" Hanan cried, that single word identifying them as Furyan, implying they greeted the man with open arms and empty hands... that they were friendly, or at the very least, non-hostile.

"Approach," the man answered, and they did so... cautiously. "How did you find this ship?" he asked harshly, as they came near. He wore the uniform of a Furyan military officer, but the beaded leather braid on his shoulder marked him Elite.

"God told us…"

"Yes, the dream," he snapped, but he lowered his weapon. "I've already heard that one." He eyed Hanan appraisingly, as if judging his acceptability, and noted with evident approval the bloody gore that splattered Hanan's clothes. Then the man looked at Charis. "You are not Furyan," he said coldly, as if he suspected she had something to do with the attack.

"No," Hanan answered as he put his arm around her protectively, "but she _is_ my wife."

The man looked Charis over again, then let his eyes settle on the child snuggled against her chest. "Then the child is Out of Province also."

It was said as a statement more than a question and Hanan found he was reluctant to correct it at the moment.

"This vessel was commandeered by the authority of Alpha Shirah herself. We are for the saving of the Furyan people, for the saving of..." His voiced trailed off as he glanced toward the door Hanan and Charis had just entered by, but there was no movement behind them.

In that lull Charis acted. Digging in her pocket she retrieved the coins she had recovered in the rubble. "Please. I can pay for my passage." The officer's gaze snapped back to her. She knew by the shape of them that the value of several had been high. She held the coins out, and after a moment the man's hand rose to accept them.

Charis dropped the coins in his hand. She had nearly forgotten she had them. They were Furyan, but their owner could no longer use them, and soon, save for their base metal value, they would be worthless. If they could buy her passage she would gladly part with them, but as they fell from her hand she noticed for the first time one rectangular bar was a different from the others - a dusty blue metallic among lighter shades of silver and gold and platinum- a color she had never seen before. It had been too dark to do more than note shapes when she found them, and now she was afforded only that bare glimpse of the odd coin before the man lifted the money up to look at it more closely. When he did, his eyes widened, and then narrowed.

"Where did you get these?" he snarled.

Hanan shifted Charis to put himself between her and the officer without relinquishing his hold on her. "We found them," he answered quickly, forestalling accusations of thievery. "As we came here we found a noble's battle mount dead in the street. The saddle was empty so we had hope the rider might have survived. As we searched nearby rubble we found these coins, spilled from her belt... It must have ripped loose when she fell..."

"Her?" the officer interrupted harshly as his hand closed, startled, over the coins. "She?"

Hanan was shaken by the man's reaction. "Yes... she," he answered guardedly. "We found the rider. She... she had been located by ground troops... her unborn child had been...," he faltered and despite their foundling's security in its wrap, Charis's arms came up around it protectively as she turned into her husband's chest. The vivid remembrance of the woman... of what had been done to her... was more than she wished to recall and a shudder again shook her frame. Hanan encompassed his wife and the child in both arms and held them tightly as her reaction and his gesture seemed to convey more than words could of a scene Hanan was loathe to describe.

Isolated as they were in the hanger, the officer was not, evidently, ignorant of what has happening on the streets for it was the officer's turn to be shaken. He stared at Hanan momentarily, his expression conveying what he would not through the _Kol'adam, _then he turned and stalked up the ramp. "Follow," he ordered.

They entered into the hold of the ship. Within Hanan saw Furyan military, armed and wary, watching over a small cluster of Out of Province crew, and many of Furyan citizens - well over a hundred, possibly more - standing, sitting or lying about the hold. There looked to be many in the uniform of airport employees while others wore the dress of most every Furyan class in various states of disrepair. There were many injuries - some minor, some less so - and Hanan realized these were the survivors of the airport attack... those that could make it to the ship.

Scattered among the airport survivors and huddled in groups were others - many in their night clothes - who looked less abused, though many looked just as frightened, shocked and bewildered, as if they were unsure why they were there. Still others were dealing with the situation with action. A few worked in tandem with the ship's doctor - the only crew member permitted to move about - assisting him in treating injuries. Others stood among the bewildered and the lost offering what comfort they could. And then there were those who had separated into small groups and knelt, heads together, deep in prayer. It was clear these were the ones who had heard and heeded God's warning to flee promptly.

_Unlike us_, Hanan though briefly. _Aarron!_ He clamped down on his thoughts.

Among the latter group there were a few faces that were familiar, but many more were not. Some of the guards looked suspiciously upon the praying refugees, as if they were unsure why they were there, but in light of the events how could they deny them. And compared to the population of an entire city, the number was despairingly few. Surely this could not be all there was. He could only pray more Furyan's had heeded God's warning than he was seeing here. That - perhaps - God had other means for their escape for even if there were a ship in every city, filled to capacity, the number of Furyans saved would be the smallest fraction. Nor would there be the faces he most desperately wanted to see among the number. He felt his heart wrench but had no time to dwell on it as the officer pointed at the hold of people. "Have your wife stay here. You, come with me."

Hanan nodded for Charis to obey, and reluctantly they parted. He followed the officer down a short corridor toward the cockpit. The door at the end was shut, but even before they stepped up to it Hanan heard an angry voice through the metal, "... waited long enough. Look, No one saw this coming! We understand why you're doing this, but we're _not_ _Furyan_! This crew has family in other quadrants. We have to go... NOW! You _can't_ keep us here!" The voice was strangely accented... Out of Province. The ship's captain?

The voice that answered was Furyan, tightly controlled, and dangerously close to Rage. "We can, and we will. We are talking about saving..."

The officer Hanan was following didn't even bother signaling his presence. Disaster left little room for standard courtesies.

The door slid open. "She's not coming," he announced.

All nine heads within the room turned to face them. Three were sitting before consoles, their hands resting uselessly on the controls before them. Arrayed against the walls were four more in military uniforms, armed with weapons bared, and directly before the door stood two men, one flushed with anger, the other with a face like cold stone, but Hanan could sense he was seething. At the simple ambiguous phrase the angry man gaped, but among the guards it brought a single uniform response. Despite their training and control, the nearness and unity of the men's stunned shock carried through the _Kol'adam_ to Hanan. "What do you mean she's not coming?" the stone faced commander turned to face the officer that had escorted Hanan accusingly.

"I mean she's not coming," the man repeated raggedly and held out his fist offering his commander the handful of coins. As the metal bars fell into the commander's hand he spoke. "This man saw her," and he repeated Hanan's report of finding the fallen battle mount and its rider.

The commander stared at the coins, then glared at Hanan as if daring him to confirm. "Tell me of the prequine. It's color. It's sex." he snapped.

"It was a great brindle stallion," Hanan answered quietly.

"Zynda?" one of the armed men murmured.

"And the rider?" the commander barked.

Hanan shook his head. "She had dark hair and a noble's night dress, but we knew the prequine was hers. She wore barbed riding boots."

"There was no hope for her," the commander stated. His manner, his tone, offering Hanan every opportunity to correct him, but Hanan could not.

"There was not," Hanan confirmed.

_Who was this woman?_ Hanan wondered. Not the Alpha herself. The Chronicles had never recorded an Alpha bearing a child, and this woman had been too young to be Alpha Shirah... And surly he would have known through the _Kol'adam_ if a new Alpha had been raised up in the last seven years, even so far away as he had been... wouldn't he? Certainly an Alpha would be worth waiting for, but he could think of any number of other personages important enough to warrant the risk in the face of this utter destruction... the ruling family... he recalled mention of a marriage in his absence. Was a child expected?

He had paid little attention to the political gossip when he returned. There had been no radical shifts that affected him or his family so he hadn't really cared... he had just been glad to be _home_. But at a time like this parliament members, high priestesses, distinguished nobles, learned teachers... they would be just as important. Furyans had had to recreate their entire culture once before... everything they were, their entire identity as a people. They would not risk that loss again if it could be saved... so who was this woman? Only in one case would it matter that her child had survived. And she had named the boy Bedan... "Who was she?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter now," the commander shook his head grimly.

"But..."

"Later," the man commanded sharply then turned to the officer who had brought Hanan forward. "See our last passenger is settled with the others and prepare them for lift off," he ordered. "We're leaving... now."

The officer gave Hanan no time to react as he took Hanan by the shoulders and physically turned him around and started him back down the corridor. Behind them Hanan could hear the commander's voice accompanied by the click of buckles, "You may prepare your ship for departure, Captian Jenkins." The last thing Hanan heard as the door shut was, "Comm., transmit the following message... By order of Sar Joaab to all remaining airborne fighters. The time is now. Natsal'am Shuwb is now!"

Natsal'am Shuwb, Hanan thought. In the ancient tongue, the Language of Names 'shuwb' is again, in the bitter sense of retreat... 'deliver the people, again.' And the name Natsal'am had only been used once before in their history... before they were even Furyan. It could mean only one thing. There would be no safe place on Furya. They were going to the stars.

By the time he reached the hold, the crew had been released and the prayer groups had been scattered. The crew were scrambling to prepare their passengers. Hanan quickly found Charis as the passengers were herded to one end of the hold. As the floor cleared, sections of it pivoted up to become backs for rows of recessed seats, and in each Hanan saw cryo gear. _People or cargo. Versatile ship._ It seemed total chaos, but the military officers and the crew worked seamlessly and all the passengers were situated by the time the engines took on the thrumming whine of power waiting to be released. Those who didn't have seats or who were unable to sit were anchored in other manners, but it was done in a matter of minutes. Faster than Hanan would have ever thought possible, the "cargo" was secured.

Hanan found himself in a seat with a view, as fantastic as that was. The port holes were higher than the seats so his field of vision beyond should have been limited to the hanger roof. But the windows were layered and treated to prevent harmful radiation from entering in space, and these layers, with his angle, combined to create a strange parallax allowing him a second field of vision toward the door they entered the hanger by.

"Man the guns," Captain Jenkin's voice rang through the speakers. "We're going out stealth active from the start. Hopefully we can slip under their main scanners, but that won't prevent visuals. This will be a high speed, hostile launch. Just don't hit our guardians. We've precious few reporting in."

The remaining crew and officers acted, some disappearing up ladders, others down hatches. Even the Furyan commander left the bridge to scramble for a gun. "I can't fly this ship," Hanan heard him announce to the crewman he had intercepted at the ladder, "but I can keep these _harag _off our tail." The crewman fell back before the tight lipped rage in the commander's face and motioned him up the ladder.

Although there had been hostilities before, there were none now. The crew and Furyans were one people joined together by the desire to survive. The angle of the seats did not allow him to hold Charis's hand, but he reached over to put his hand on her shoulder. She laid hers over his as he offered a brief prayer asking for the safety of the crew and officers, and expressed his confidence that God would keep His promise to save them. Charis squeezed his hand in silent "Amen", and then wrapped her arms around their foundling. They, at least, knew something of what was to happen having flown Out of Province before.

Suddenly Hanan caught movement by the hanger door. _Another refugee?_ was his fleeting thought before the door slammed open and armored invaders pushed in. They streamed for the ship, but before Hanan could even cry warning, the Captain announced, "We leave... NOW!" Hanan's stomach was suddenly shoved into his feet by the sudden upward acceleration as white hot flame hit the ground beneath the ship and splashed out toward the oncoming soldiers. For the briefest moment Hanan saw the flame meet the armored warriors flooding in, each armored form going instantly incandescent, then his view was usurped by dark twisted metal taking on new shape. Outside the hull he heard the thunder and shriek of metal on metal as the ship ripped through the hanger roof, and then it was the night sky that filled the window... a night sky such as he never wished to see.

In the distance the wreckage and rubble of the once proud Furyan city leaped with bright flame and in the air lances of light illuminated sleek craft engaged in mortal combat. Even as he watched a Furyan fighter became a flaming comet plunging toward the ground, and moments later the enemy who had shot it down did likewise, visible only because the ebon flames that consumed it were darker still against the pale fire-bright ruins of Haran's heritage. It was not just the Furyan fighters responding to their ship's emergence from the wreckage. The enemy fighters were coming as well. Their escaped was truly going to be a deadly gauntlet.

Their ship lurched, and then changed direction. It shifted sharply again sending Hanan's stomach ricocheting off his ribs and he realized they were taking evasive maneuvers. Spirals of light erupted outward from above and below their ship, and enemy aircraft exploded. The crew were fighting for their lives, but the Elite were avenging all they'd lost, protecting what little remained. Warrior born and warrior trained, leadership in the Furyan military was as much based on skill at arms as it was knowledge and skill with troops for they were not expected to limited their role in combat to ones supervisory. And the Elite were all officers hand picked by the Alpha and sworn to her service.

They continued their twisting flight, but with every moment they climbed higher. Hanan watched as the number of Furyan fighters accompanying them dwindled, but so did the enemy. Their seemingly endless numbers were finding a finite end against Furyan resolve. Hanan had one last glimpse of the city he loved... of the land he loved... of the world he loved, before the ship's final twist put his gaze into the stars. Distance had put the horrific icon embedded in the royal plateau in the scale of a miniature toy while the city at its foot was reduced to a flickering glow... and beyond that spot of flickering brightness he had once called home, other spots of flickering brightness dotted a darkened landscape.

Hanan choked, his fist striking futilely against his arm rest as the weight of all he'd lost fell upon him. _Aarron! Father! Mother!_ The emotions he had walled in so desperately sought to escape their confinement. His throat burned, and as he let his head fall forward and closed his eyes, he felt tears course hot down his cheeks. He kept himself closed, not wanting to share the grief with those nearest... not wanting to suffer the rage and torment of those he left behind. Though Charis sat beside him in the next chair, he had never felt so alone. It was not his son she cradled. That thought alone was enough to rip his heart, but there was another made so unalterably real by all they had endured... by his last glimpse of his world. _Home_ and all that word implied... He could never go _home_ again.

_God!_ his heart cried. How could You let this happen?

His mind returned to the quiet conversation he had had with Charis over what now seemed a lifetime ago...

"What if you lost it all, Han? What if you lost Aarron... me... your father... everything? Would you still love Jesus then?"

That question had shaken Hanan to his core... resonated with something he could not identify then. "I... I don't know. I think I would, but... I can't say for certain. I'm not sure I can know unless I go through it."

_God_! his heart cried again. Why did this happen?

His accusation was interrupted as the ship jolted violently. "We've lost Starboard 3 gun!" the captain's voice announced. "Starboard 2, Port 3, pick up the slack. We're losing our escort and if we don't ghost these tails, our stealth won't mean squat!" Hanan looked out the window to see Furyan fighters falling behind. Their craft were not designed to endure the rigors of space.

But their opponents, however, were.

"Lord," Hanan whispered. "Help us!"

* * *

**-oOo-**

* * *

**WRITER'S THANKS, NOTES & NEWS:**

**THANKS:**

**vingirl89** - Thank you so much. You can't realize how much I appreciate having a new reader who is enjoying my work and how much your praise means to me, especially the part about my story having the feel of the movie. That is the whole idea of fanfiction, to write something that meshes with the original well enough that readers feel there is a connection. I apologize that updates are so incredibly far apart. I hope between my other stories I can keep you entertained, at least occasionally :o)

As far as you're being able to write a story as well as I (Thank you, again!) I can promise you this has not been an overnight development. When I look back on the things I wrote in high school, I just shake my head and chuckle. I loved writing, even then, but I had a lot to learn... still do. But if writing is not your gift, then I know you have others that can bless people in ways I could never hope to. Develop those skills and maybe someday I will be similarly blessed by you when I hear a new song you've crafted or a device you've created aids my life... God hands out such a diversity if gifts. What is yours?

**Shaden** - Busyness I understand ;o). I get so frustrated with the space between my updates, but I'm determined to persevere. I'm glad you like the way the two plotlines dovetail. I was a little concerned covering the same event twice from two POVs might get long, so I'm glad you didn't think it excessive. I'm thinking, perhaps though, the contrast I was hoping to reveal didn't stand out as much as I wished - for example, the 'blocked' passage Hanan and Charis safely traversed was the same that Zynda _wanted_ to take, but wasn't allowed. If she had trusted her prequine, the woman would have avoided the Lord Marshal, likewise if Hanan and Charis had obeyed more quickly, they would have avoided their fatal encounter, but God uses all things to good if we allow Him. Disobedience has a price, but God continues to try and guide us, and if we listen (the hard part, sometimes), can still turn things around to a good end. It doesn't eliminate the consequences of our disobedience, but He may give back some of what we lost.

As far as Riddick's canon goes (isn't this sad. It's been so long since I posted, I bet you are going to have to go review your review to know what I'm talking about), Hanan, Charis and Aarron aren't. This story had a great deal of flexibility because there is so little known on Riddick's birth, That gave great latitude when it came to the who's, whats, hows and the Furyan people & their culture (Thanks for the compliment!). There are really only a few canon premises available to built this story around... 1) A Necromonger warrior (The Lord Marshal) consulted a 'seer' and is given a doomful prophecy regarding a male child born on Furya causing his downfall (from the TCoR Director's Cut) and the 'seer's' prophecy was simply given out of "...desire to instill uncertainty in a tormentor" (the TCoR novelization). 2) That said warrior instigated an attack on Furya, and that Riddick was actually born on Furya during that attack (strongly implied although not overtly stated in TCoR DC) and finally, 3) Riddick was found in a liquor store trash can with his umbilical around his neck (Pitch Black movie), and that the Lord Marshal was connected either directly, or indirectly, with that 'artful' act (TCoR DC which supports the Furyan birth), and then one other canon fact that shapes the end of the story and the bit of 'history' coming up in the next chapter of Turn About (courtesy of your suggestion). I personally also liked the idea that Riddick and the Lord Marshal had, indeed, encountered one another "on some distant field" so I arranged they had :o). There's also the Alpha bit, which I think actually has its source in the pop-up bonuses on the DC of TCoR. Pretty much everything else had to be created, so its not canon.

**NOTES:**

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**MY CONTINUING PROMISE:**  
As much as I hate it when other writers get 'distracted' by other stories and don't update the one **I'm** reading as fast as I'd enjoy, I have discovered that there are times other stories insist on being written. The result? I have four stories currently 'in progress' for your perusal – as they are all of a 'back story' nature in Riddick's timeline they would occur thusly: Saved by Grace, Be Still: Chances, Turn About and Nigh Unto Christmas.  
The good news is that each story has been generally plotted and outlined, and only ("only" LOL) needs to be fleshed out. The bad? That takes time, especially when divided between 4 stories, 3 kids, (2 six and under), 1 husband and the life that contains them all and more, so writing time comes at a premium. What it means for my readers is that updates to this story may be intermittent. I do, however, **promise** it won't be abandoned barring death or other equally drastic life change. Updates will come, please be patient, (and, of course, be aware that **feedback** is an incredibly powerful motivator ;o) but until then, may God bless you all the time in-between.


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